TRAVELS  IN 
PHILADELPHIA 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
SANTA  BARBARA 

COLLEGE  OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  MACKINLEY  HELM 


V- 

1 


BKN.IAMIN  AND  DEBORAH  FRANKLIN  (SEE  P.  101) 


TRAVELS  IN 
PHILADELPHIA 


BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

with  drawings  by 
FRANK  H.  TAYLOR 


WHAT  could  be  more  delightful  than  to  have  in  the  same  few  minutes 
all  the  fascinating  terrors  of  going  abroad  combined  with  all  the  humane 
security  of  coming  home  again?  What  could  be  better  than  to  have  all 
the  fun  of  discovering  South  Africa  without  the  disgusting  necessity  of 
landing  there?  What  could  be  more  glorious  than  to  brace  one's  self 
up  to  discover  New  South  Wales  and  then  realize,  with  a  gush  of  happy 
tears,  that  it  was  really  Old  South  Wales.  .  .  .  How  can  we  con- 
trive to  be  at  once  astonished  at  the  world  and  yet  at  home  in  it?  How 
can  this  world  give  us  at  once  the  fascination  of  a  strange  town  and  the 
comfort  and  honour  of  being  our  own  town? 

G.  K.  CHE8TEETON 
Orthodoxy 


PHILADELPHIA 

DAVID  McKAY  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 
604-608  SOUTH  WASHINGTON  SQUABE 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
DAVID  McKAY  COMPANY 


WM  •  F.  FELL  CO  •  PRINTERS 
PHILADELPHIA 


F 
152,5 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
SANTA  P.'         '."V  rot;'    •  ;  LIBRARY 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  To 

BART  HALEY 

(THE  SOOTHSAYER) 

JIMMY  CRAVEN 

(THE  EPICURE) 

ROY  HELTON 

(THE  MOTJNTAINEER) 

MY  GENIAL  TUTORS  IN  THE  DELICATE  ART 
OF  LIVING  IN  PHILADELPHIA 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

These  sketches  were  all  written  for  the  Philadel- 
phia Evening  Public  Ledger,  which  has  kindly  given 
permission  for  their  reissue.  They  were  put  down 
under  necessary  conditions  of  haste,  and  I  fear 
that  scrupulous  and  better  informed  lovers  of  the 
city  may  find  much  to  censure.  But  they  were  not 
intended  as  a  formal  portrait,  merely  as  snap- 
shots of  vivacious  phases  of  the  life  of  today. 
Philadelphia,  most  livable  and  lovable  of  large 
cities,  makes  a  unique  appeal  to  the  meditative 
stroller. 

I  am  very  grateful  indeed  to  Mr.  Frank  H. 
Taylor  for  letting  me  include  some  of  his  delight- 
ful drawings,  which  preserve  the  outlines  and 
graces  of  so  many  Philadelphia  scenes. 

PHILADELPHIA 
December  29,  1919 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  publishers  of  these  "Travels"  have  asked 
me  to  write  an  introduction  to  this  little  volume: 
it  needs  no  introduction,  but  I  gladly  comply, 
for  I  am  happy  to  link  my  name  with  that  of  the 
author. 

Occasionally,  on  red  letter  days,  for  two  years 
past  these  papers  have  been  appearing  in  the 
Evening  Ledger,  and  many  of  us  have  turned  to 
the  editorial  page  on  which  they  were  printed  to 
quiet  our  nerves  preparatory  to  a  glance  at  the 
stock  market  column  to  discover  what  has  hap- 
pened to  our  investments.  And  reassured  on  this 
point,  it  may  be,  or  discouraged,  we  have  turned 
back  to  re-read  slowly  these  little  essays  which, 
with  a  humor  all  their  own  and  a  strong  local 
flavor,  have  a  quality  which  we  supposed  had 
disappeared  with  the  essayists  who  were  writing 
in  London,  just  a  century  ago.  Finally,  the 
"Travels"  became  so  popular  that  I  have  seen 
men  carefully  cut  them  out  with  their  penknives 
and  place  them  in  their  wallets  to  pass  on  to  some 
appreciative  friend  later,  with  the  remark,  "Have 
you  seen  that  last  thing  of  Morley's?  I  cut  it 
out  for  you." 

And  so  it  is  that  these  seeming  ephemera  have 
been  thought  worthy  of  being  collected  in  a  vol- 
ume, and  rightly  too,  for  they  have  a  charm  which 
we  shall  seek  for  in  vain  elsewhere.  Which  we 
shall  seek  for  in  vain  in  Philadelphia,  perhaps  I 
should  have  written,  for  with  the  publication  of 
vii 


viii INTRODUCTION 

these  papers,  Christopher  Morley,  the  well- 
beloved  "Kit"  of  his  many  friends,  shakes  the 
dust  of  Philadelphia  from  his  ample  feet  and  be- 
takes himself  to  "fresh  woods  and  pastures  new," 
or  to  drop  the  elegance  of  Milton,  he  goes  to  New 
York,  there  to  create  in  the  columns  of  the 
Evening  Post  that  atmosphere  of  amiability  which 
we  have  come  to  regard  as  inseparable  from  him. 
Of  course,  some  of  us  will  resolve  to  submit  to 
the  inconvenience  of  awaiting  at  Broad  Street 
Station  the  arrival  of  the  four  o'clock  train  from 
New  York  which  usually  brings  to  us  the  after- 
noon edition  of  the  Evening  Post,  but  I  fear  that 
after  a  time  our  resolution  will  go  the  way  of 
good  resolutions  generally,  and  that  we  will  force 
ourselves  to  be  content  with  second  best.  For 
after  Morley,  whatever  comes  will  be  second  best. 
Where  else  shall  we  find  simplicity,  the  gayety, 
the  kindly  humor,  and  the  charm  of  this  gentle 
essayist?  Who,  other  than  Morley,  could  make 
a  walk  out  Market  Street  of  interest  and  a  source 
of  fun?  His  little  skit  in  the  manner  of  Karl 
Baedeker  is  inimitable.  Who,  but  he,  would 
think  of  calling  Ridge  Avenue,  that  diagonal 
that  passes  over  the  shoulder  of  Philadelphia, 
"the  Sam  Brown  belt"?  Who,  but  he,  could 
find  in  the  commonplace,  sordid,  and  depressing 
streets  of  our  city,  subjects  for  a  sheaf  of  dainty 
little  essays,  as  delightful  as  they  are  unique? 
For  say  what  you  will,  to  most  of  us  the  streets 
of  Philadelphia  are  dirty  and  depressing.  But 


_, INTRODUCTION ix 

Morley  sees  everything — not  red  but  rosy — which 
is  a  very  different  matter. 

It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  Morley  agreed  to 
go  to  New  York  just  at  the  arrival  of  our  new 
Mayor,  who  has  promised  that  our  streets  shall 
be  swept  and  garnished, — and  I,  for  one,  believe 
that  he  will  keep  his  word, — but  perhaps  he  is 
leaving  Philadelphia  on  this  very  account,  for 
I  remember  that  neatness  never  had  any  charm 
for  him.  Have  we  not,  all  of  us,  read  of  the 
condition  of  his  roll-top  desk? 

Be  this  as  it  may.  We  are  to  lose  him,  and  I, 
for  one,  am  desolate.  Students  and  men  of  the 
world  we  have,  but  of  "saunterers,"  in  these  days 
of  big  business,  of  "snappers-up  of  unconsidered 
trifles,"  we  have  too  few.  We  have  all  kinds  of 
cusses  but  Autolycusses.  We  can  ill  spare  Morley 
to  New  York.  But  wherever  he  goes,  our  good 
wishes  go  with  him,  and  he  may  yet,  when  he 
has  had  his  fling  in  the  "metrolopus,"  as  Francis 
Wilson  used  to  call  the  great  city,  rid  himself  of 
his  motley  and,  assuming  a  collegiate  gown,  re- 
turn to  his  Alma  Mater,  Haverford,  there  to 
carry  on  the  splendid  tradition  of  his  and  my  old 
friend  Gummere;  for  beneath  his  assumption 
of  the  vagabond,  Morley  has  the  learning  as  well 
as  the  tastes  and  traditions  of  the  scholar,  as  will 
be  evident  to  the  reader  of  these  pages. 

A.  EDWARD  NEWTON 

Daylesford,  Pa., 
January  20,  1920 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Benjamin  Franklin 7 

Sauntering .  r 10 

Little  Italy 15 

Meeting  the  Gods  for  a  Dime 21 

Wild  Words  We  Have  Known 24 

The  Enchanted  Village 28 

Trailing  Mrs.  Trollope 33 

The  Haverford  Comes  Home 39 

Marooned  in  Philadelphia 45 

The  Ronaldson  Cemetery 50 

Willow  Grove 56 

Chestnut  Street  from  a  Fire  Escape 60 

The  Parkway,  Henry  Ford  and  Billy  the  Bean  Man ...  64 

Wildey  Street 69 

Hog  Island 75 

South  Broad  Street 81 

The  Recluse  of  Franklin  Square 87 

Catterina  of  Spring  Garden  Street 92 

A  Slice  of  Sunlight 98 

Up  the  Wissahickon 103 

Darkness  Visible 108 

On  the  Way  to  Baltimore 115 

The  Paoli  Local 119 

Travels  in  Philadelphia — As  They  Would  Be  Reported 

by  Some  Eminent  Travelers 124 

To  League  Island  and  Back 129 

The  Whitman  Centennial 135 

Anne  Gilchrist's  House 141 

Along  the  Green  Neshaminy 147 

Penn  Treaty  Park 152 

The  Indian  Pole 156 

Claud  Joseph  Warlow 162 

xi 


xii  CONTENTS 


At  the  Mint 167 

Stonehouse  Lane  and  The  Neck 174 

Valley  Forge 178 

The  Mercantile  Library 184 

Meditations  on  Oysters 190 

Darby  Creek 192 

Darby  Revisited 197 

The  Happy  Valley 200 

Our  Old  Desk 206 

Calling  on  William  Penn 211 

Madonnas  of  the  Curb 217 

The  Paradise  Special 222 

Up  to  Valley  Green 228 

On  the  Sightseeing  Bus 233 

September  Afternoon 238 

Broad  Street  Station 244 

The  Shore  in  September 250 

Putting  the  City  to  Bed 259 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 
Jan.  17,  1919 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  sagacious  and  witty, 
The  greatest  of  all  who  have  lived  in  this  city, 
Earnest  and  frugal  and  very  discerning, 
Always  industrious,  bent  upon  learning, 
Athlete,  ambassador,  editor,  printer, 
Merchant  and  scientist,  writer,  inventor, 
None  was  more  canny  or  shrewder  of  brain, 
None  was  more  practical  or  more  humane, 

None  was  e'er  wiser 
With  common  sense  ripe, 

Great  advertiser 
And  founder  of  type. 

Troubles  he  suffered,  but  he  didn't  dodge  any: 
Born  the  fifteenth  of  a  numerous  progeny 
(Seventeen  children  Josiah  had  sired, 

A  whole  little  font  of  good  lower-case  types ; 
A  fact  that  the  census  man  must  have  admired— 
I  think  old  Josiah  might  well  have  worn 

stripes, 

But  that  was  in  Boston  where  folks  are  prolific) 
He  passed  through  a  boyhood  by  no  means  pacific. 
Through  most  of  his  teens,  young  Benjamin  lent 

his 

Best  efforts  to  being  his  brother's  apprentice, 
But  Jimmy  was  crusty — they  didn't  get  on, 
And  one  autumn  morning  young  Benny  was  gone. 
He  vowed  he  would  make  his  sour  kinsman  look 

silly, 

And  so  he  took  ship  and  descended  on  Philly. 

7 


8 BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN 

The  very  first  thought  that  came  into  his  nob 
(After  buying  some  buns)  was  to  look  for  a  job. 
So  up  from  the  ferry 

Our  Benjamin  stalked, 
And  hungrily,  very, 

Ate  buns  as  he  walked. 
A  certain  blithe  flapper, 

A  whimsical  lass, 
Observed  the  young  strapper 

And  thought  he  lacked  class, 
And  so,  in  the  manner  of  feminine  strafing, 
The  superior  damsel  just  couldn't  help  laughing; 
But  Ben,  unabashed  by  this  good-natured  chaffing, 
Although  young  Deborah 

Was  certainly  rude, 
He  thought  he'd  ignore  her 

And  cheerfully  chewed. 

With  the  best  kind  of  repartee  later  he  parried  her, 
For  seven  years  afterward  he  went  and  married 
her. 

Well,  you  all  know  of  his  varied  successes, 
Electrical  hobbies  and  his  printing  presses. 
See  how  his  mind,  with  original  oddity 
Touched  and  found  interest  in  every  commodity : 
Busy  with  schemes  to  domesticate  lightning, 
Inventing  a  stove  for  home  warming  and  brighten- 
ing, 

Scribbling  a  proverb,  a  joke  or  a  sermon, 
Publishing  too  (what  I  am  loth  to  mention 
For  fear  of  its  bringing  up  any  dissension) 
Printing,  I  say,  a  newspaper  in  German — 
Also,  for  which  he's  remembered  by  most, 
He  founded  the  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
For  which  Irvin  Cobb  has  consistently  praised 

him — 
And  its  circulation  would  much  have  amazed  him ! 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  9 

Busy  with  matters  too  many  for  telling — 
Saving  of  daylight  and  simplified  spelling — 
Still  his  chief  happiness,  as  one  may  think, 
Came  when  he  found  himself  dabbling  in  ink, 
And  all  his  writings,  though  slight  he  did  think 

'em, 

Brought  him  a  very  respectable  income. 
His  was  a  mind  that  was  chiefly  empirical, 
Not  at  all  given  to  theory  or  miracle — 

Nothing  chimerical, 

Nothing  hysterical, — 

Though  he  wrote  verses,  they  weren't  very  lyrical, 
And  he  was  touched  with  a  taste  for  satirical. 
Though  his  more  weighty  affairs  were  so  numerous 
Yet  he  was  quaintly  and  constantly  humorous, 
Loved  Philadelphians,  but  when  he  was  one  of 

them 
Nothing  he  liked  quite  so  well  as  make  fun  of  them. 

Scarce  an  invention  since  his  time  has  burst 

But  Benjamin  Franklin  had  thought  of  it  first; 

Indeed  it  would  cause  me  no  ejaculations 

To  hear  he  suggested  the  new  League  of  Nations. 

He  truly  succeeded  in  most  that  he  tried,  he 

Confounded  his  enemies,  and  when  he  died  he 

Was  guiltless  of  sin  except  being  untidy. 

He  died  of  old  age,  not  of  illness  or  tumor, 

And  wrote  his  own  epitaph,  full  of  good  humor. 

Every  tradition  and  custom  he  broke, 

This  first  Philadelphian  who  dared  make  a  joke! 


10  SAUNTERING 


SAUNTERING 

SOME  famous  lady — who  was  it? — used  to  say 
of  anyone  she  richly  despised  that  he  was  "a 
saunterer."  I  suppose  she  meant  he  was  a  mere 
trifler,  a  lounger,  an  idle  stroller  of  the  streets.  It 
is  an  ignominious  confession,  but  I  am  a  confirmed 
saunterer.  I  love  to  be  set  down  haphazard  among 
unknown  byways;  to  saunter  with  open  eyes, 
watching  the  moods  and  humors  of  men,  the  shapes 
of  their  dwellings,  the  criss-cross  of  their  streets. 
It  is  an  implanted  passion  that  grows  keener  and 
keener.  The  everlasting  lure  of  round-the-corner, 
how  fascinating  it  is! 

I  love  city  squares.  The  most  interesting  per- 
sons are  always  those  who  have  nothing  special 
to  do:  children,  nurses,  policemen,  and  actors  at 
1 1  o'clock  in  the  morning.  These  are  always  to  be 
found  in  the  park;  by  which  I  mean  not  an  enor- 
mous sector  of  denatured  countryside  with  bridle 
paths,  fishponds  and  sea  lions,  but  some  broad 
patch  of  turf  in  a  shabby  elbow  of  the  city,  striped 
with  pavements,  with  plenty  of  sun-warmed 
benches  and  a  cast-iron  zouave  erected  about  1873 
to  remind  one  of  the  horrors  of  commemorative 
statuary.  Children  scuffle  to  and  fro;  dusty  men 
with  spiculous  chins  loll  on  the  seats;  the  uncouth 
and  pathetic  vibrations  of  humankind  are  on 
every  side. 

It  is  entrancing  to  walk  in  such  places  and  cata- 


SAUNTERING 11 

logue  all  that  may  be  seen.  I  jot  down  on  scraps 
of  paper  a  list  of  all  the  shops  on  a  side  street; 
the  names  of  tradesmen  that  amuse  me;  the  ab- 
surd repartees  of  gutter  children.  Why?  It 
amuses  me  and  that  is  sufficient  excuse.  From 
now  until  the  end  of  time  no  one  else  will  ever 
see  life  with  my  eyes,  and  I  mean  to  make  the 
most  of  my  chance.  Just  as  Thoreau  compiled  a 
Domesday  Book  and  kind  of  classified  directory 
of  the  sights,  sounds  and  scents  of  Walden  (care- 
fully recording  the  manners  of  a  sandbank  and  the 
prejudices  of  a  woodlouse  or  an  apple  tree)  so  I 
love  to  annotate  the  phenomena  of  the  city.  I 
can  be  as  solitary  in  a  city  street  as  ever  Thoreau 
was  in  Walden. 

And  no  Walden  sky  was  ever  more  blue  than 
the  roof  of  Washington  square  this  morning.  Sit- 
ting here  reading  Thoreau  I  am  entranced  by  the 
mellow  flavor  of  the  young  summer.  The  sun  is  j ust 
goodly  enough  to  set  the  being  in  a  gentle  toasting 
muse.  The  trees  confer  together  in  a  sleepy 
whisper.  I  have  had  buckwheat  cakes  and  syrup 
for  breakfast,  and  eggs  fried  both  recto  and  verso; 
good  foundation  for  speculation.  I  puff  cigarettes 
and  am  at  peace  with  myself.  Many  a  worthy 
waif  comes  to  lounge  beside  me;  he  glances  at 
my  scuffed  boots,  my  baggy  trousers;  he  knows 
me  for  one  of  the  fraternity.  By  their  boots  ye 
shall  know  them.  Many  of  those  who  have 
abandoned  the  race  for  this  world's  honors  have  a 
shrewdness  all  their  own.  What  is  it  Thoreau 


12 SAUNTERING 

says,  with  his  penetrative  truth? — "Sometimes 
we  are  inclined  to  class  those  who  are  once  and  a 
half  witted  with  the  half  witted,  because  we  ap- 
preciate only  a  third  part  of  their  wit."  By  the 
time  a  man  is  thirty  he  should  be  able  to  see  what 
life  has  to  offer,  and  take  what  dishes  on  the  menu 
agree  with  him  best.  That  is  whole  wit,  indeed, 
or  wit-and-a-half.  And  if  he  finds  his  pleasure 
on  a  park  bench  in  ragged  trousers  let  him  lounge 
then,  with  good  heart.  I  welcome  him  to  the 
goodly  fellowship  of  saunterers,  an  acolyte  of  the 
excellent  church  of  the  agorolaters! 

These  meditations  are  incurred  in  the  ancient 
and  noble  city  of  Philadelphia,  which  is  a  sur- 
prisingly large  town  at  the  confluence  of  the 
Biddle  and  Drexel  families.  It  is  wholly  sur- 
rounded by  cricket  teams,  fox  hunters,  beagle 
packs,  and  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad.  It  has  a 
very  large  zoological  garden,  containing  carnivora, 
herbivora,  scrappleivora,  and  a  man  from  New 
York  who  was  interned  here  at  the  time  of  the 
Centennial  Exposition  in  1876.  The  principal 
manufactures  are  carpets,  life  insurance  premiums, 
and  souvenirs  of  Independence  Hall.  Philadel- 
phia was  the  first  city  to  foresee  the  advantages 
of  a  Federal  constitution  and  oatmeal  as  a  break- 
fast food. 

And  as  one  walks  and  speculates  among  all  this 
visible  panorama,  beating  one's  brains  to  catch 
some  passing  snapshots  of  it,  watching,  listening, 
imagining,  the  whole  hullabaloo  becomes  ex- 


SAUNTERING  13 

traordinarily  precious.  The  great  faulty  hodge- 
podge of  the  city,  its  very  pavements  and  house- 
corners,  becomes  vividly  dear.  One  longs  to 
clutch  the  whole  meaning  in  some  sudden  embrace 
—to  utter  some  testament  of  affection  that  will 
speak  plain  truth.  "Friday  I  tasted  life,"  said 
Emily  Dickinson,  the  American  Blake.  "It  was 
a  vast  morsel."  Something  of  that  baffled  exul- 
tation seizes  one  in  certain  moments  of  strolling, 
when  the  afternoon  sun  streams  down  Chestnut 
Street  on  the  homeward  pressing  crowd,  or  in 
clear  crisp  mornings  as  one  walks  through  Wash- 
ington Square.  Emily  utters  her  prodigious 
parables  in  flashing  rockets  that  stream  for  an 
instant  in  the  dusk,  then  break  and  sink  in  colored 
balls.  Most  of  us  cannot  ejaculate  such  dazzles 
of  flame.  We  pick  and  poke  and  stumble  our 
thoughts  together,  catching  at  a.  truth  and  losing 
it  again. 

Agreeable  vistas  reward  the  eye  of  the  resolute 
stroller.  For  instance,  that  delightful  cluster  of 
back  gardens,  old  brick  angles,  dormer  windows 
and  tall  chimneys  in  the  little  block  on  Orange 
street  west  of  Seventh.  Orange  street  is  the  little 
alley  just  south  of  Washington  Square.  In  the 
clean  sunlight  of  a  fresh  May  morning,  with 
masses  of  green  trees  and  creepers  to  set  off  the 
old  ruddy  brick,  this  quaint  huddle  of  buildings 
composes  into  a  delightful  picture  that  has  been 
perpetuated  by  the  skilful  pencil  of  Frank  H. 
Taylor.  A  kindly  observer  in  the  Dreer  seed 


14  SAUNTERING 


warehouse,  which  backs  upon  Orange  street, 
noticed  me  prowling  about  and  offered  to  take 
me  up  in  his  elevator.  From  one  of  the  Dreer 
windows  I  had  a  fascinating  glimpse  down  upon 
these  roofs  and  gardens.  One  of  them  is  the  rear 
yard  of  the  Italian  consulate  at  717  Spruce  street. 
Another  is  the  broader  garden  of  The  Catholic 
Historical  Society,  in  which  I  noticed  with  amuse- 
ment Nicholas  Biddle's  big  stone  bathtub  sunning 
itself.  Then  there  is  the  garden  of  the  adorable 
little  house  at  725  Spruce  street,  which  is  par- 
ticularly interesting  because,  when  seen  from  the 
street,  it  appears  to  have  no  front  door.  The  attic 
window  of  that  house  is  just  our  idea  of  what  an 
attic  window  ought  to  be. 

A  kind  of  philosophy  distills  itself  in  the 
mind  of  the  saunterer.  Painfully  tedious  as 
people  often  are,  they  have  the  sublime  quality 
of  interesting  one.  Not  merely  by  what  they 
say,  but  often  by  what  they  don't  say.  Their 
eyes — how  amazing  is  the  thought  of  all  those 
millions  of  little  betraying  windows !  How  bravely 
they  struggle  to  express  what  is  in  them.  A 
modern  essayist  has  spoken  of  "the  haggard  neces- 
sities of  parlor  conversation."  But  the  life  of  the 
streets  has  no  such  conventions.  It  is  real:  it 
comes  hot  from  the  pan.  It  is  as  informal,  as 
direct  and  as  unpretentious  as  the  greetings  of 
dogs.  It  is  a  never-failing  remedy  for  the  blues. 


LITTLE  ITALY  15 


LITTLE  ITALY 

THERE  are  three  gentlemen  with  whom  I  have 
been  privileged,  on  happy  occasions,  to  take 
travels  in  Philadelphia.  The  first  is  the  Moun- 
taineer, a  tall  vagabond,  all  bone  and  gristle,  mem- 
ber emeritus  of  the  Hoboes'  Union,  who  can  tramp 
all  day  on  seven  cents'  worth  of  milk  chocolate, 
knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  every  queer  trade  and  is 
a  passionate  student  of  back  alleys  and  mean 
streets.  Pawnshops,  groggeries,  docks  and  fac- 
tories make  his  mouth  water  with  the  astounding 
romance  of  every  day. 

The  second  is  the  Soothsayer,  an  amiable  vision- 
ary whose  eye  dotes  on  a  wider  palette.  Sooth- 
sayer by  profession,  artist  and  humanitarian  at 
heart,  he  is  torn  and  shaken  on  every  street  by  the 
violent  paradoxes  of  his  lively  intellect.  A  beggar 
assaults  his  sense  of  pity — but  rags  are  so  pictur- 
esque !  A  vast  hotel,  leaking  golden  flame  at  every 
window  against  the  green  azure  of  the  dusk,  fasci- 
nates his  prismatic  eyeball — but  how  about  the 
poor  and  humble?  Treading  the  wide  vistas  of  the 
Parkway  in  a  sunset  flush  he  is  transported  by  the 
glory  of  the  vision.  Scouting  some  infamous  alley 
of  smells  he  would  blast  the  whole  rottenness  from 
the  earth.  He  never  knows  whether  the  city  is  a 
sociological  nightmare  or  an  Arabian  color-box. 

And  the  third  is  the  Epicure.  In  person  very 
similar  to  Napoleon  the  Third,  late  emperor  of  the 


16 LITTLE  ITALY 

French,  some  mysterious  tincture  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean moves  in  his  strictly  Saxon  blood.  A  man 
of  riotous  and  ungovernable  humor,  frequently 
halting  on  the  streets  until  his  paroxysms  of  out- 
rageous mirth  will  permit  further  locomotion,  the 
only  thing  he  never  laughs  at  is  food.  He  sees  the 
city  not  as  a  vast  social  riddle,  nor  as  a  network  of 
heavenly  back-alleys,  but  as  a  waste  of  irrelevant 
architecture,  dotted  here  and  there  with  oases  of 
good  meals.  Mention  some  spot  in  the  city  and  his 
eye  will  brighten  like  a  newly  sucked  glass  marble. 
"Oh,  yes,"  he  cries,  " that's  just  round  the  corner 
from  the  Cafe  Pancreas,  where  they  have  those 
admirable  ortolans!"  To  eat  a  meal  in  company 
with  the  Epicure  is  like  watching  a  great  artist  at 
work.  He  studies  the  menu  with  the  bitter  con- 
centration of  a  sculptor  surveying  the  block  of 
marble  from  which  the  statue  is  to  be  chiseled.  He 
does  not  assassinate  his  appetite  at  one  swoop  with 
mere  sum  total  of  victuals.  He  gently  woos  it  to 
annihilation,  so  that  he  himself  can  hardly  tell  just 
at  what  point  it  dies.  He  eats  with  the  skill  and 
cunning  of  a  champion  chess  player,  forgoing  a 
soup  or  an  entree  in  the  calculating  spirit  of  Lasker 
or  Marshall,  sacrificing  pawns  in  order  to  exe- 
cute some  coup  elsewhere  on  the  board.  Waiters, 
with  that  subtle  instinct  of  theirs,  know  as  soon  as 
they  see  that  delicately  rounded  figure  enter  the 
salle  a  manger,  that  here  is  a  man  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

You  may  imagine,  then,  my  privilege  in  being 


LITTLE  ITALY  17 

able  to  accompany  the  Epicure  the  other  day  to 
the  Italian  market  at  Ninth  and  Christian  streets, 
where  he  purposed  to  look  over  the  stalls.  It  was  a 
day  of  entrancing  sunlight,  when  all  that  lively 
district  of  Little  Italy  leaped  and  trembled  in  the 
fullness  of  light  and  appetizing  fluent  air.  One 
saw  a  secret  pathos  in  the  effort  to  reproduce  in 
the  flat  dull  streets  of  a  foreign  city  something  of 
the  color  and  mirth  of  Mediterranean  soil.  One 
often  wonders  what  fantastic  dream  or  illusion — 
was  it  only  a  steamship  poster? — led  so  many 
citizens  of  the  loveliest  land  on  earth  to  forsake 
their  blue  hills  and  opal  valleys  to  people  the  cheer- 
less byways  of  American  towns?  What  does  Little 
Italy  think  of  us  and  our  climate  in  the  raw,  bitter 
days  of  a  western  winter?  Well,  now  that  the 
letters  are  speeding  homeward  telling  of  the  unbe- 
lievable approach  of  prohibition,  there  will  be  few 
enough  of  those  bright-eyed  immigrants! 

Christian  street  breathes  the  Italian  genius  for 
good  food.  After  lunching  in  a  well-known  Ital- 
ian restaurant  on  Catharine  street,  where  the  Epi- 
cure instructed  me  in  the  mysteries  of  gnocchi, 
frittura  mista,  rognone,  scallopini  al  marsala  and 
that  marvelously  potent  clear  coffee  which  seems 
to  the  uninstructed  to  taste  more  like  wine  than 
coffee,  and  has  a  curious  shimmer  of  green  round 
the  rim  of  the  liquid,  we  strolled  among  the  pave- 
ment stalls  of  the  little  market.  It  seems  to  me, 
just  from  a  cursory  study  of  the  exhibit,  that  the 
secret  of  Italian  gusto  for  food  is  that  they  take 


18 LITTLE  ITALY 

it  closer  to  nature,  and  also  that  they  are  less  keen 
than  we  about  meat.  They  do  not  buy  their  food 
already  prepared  in  cardboard  boxes.  Fish,  vege- 
tables, cheese,  fruit  and  nuts  seem  to  be  their  chief 
delights.  Fish  of  every  imaginable  kind  may  be 
seen  on  Christian  street.  Some  of  them,  small, 
flattened,  silver-shining  things,  are  packed  cun- 
ningly in  kegs  in  a  curious  concentric  pattern  so 
that  the  glitter  of  their  perished  eyes  gleams  in 
hypnotizing  circles.  Eels,  mussels,  skates,  shrimps, 
cuttlefish — small  pink  corpses,  bathed  in  their  own 
ink — and  some  very  tiny  ocean  morsels  that  look 
like  white-bait.  Cheeses  of  every  kind  and  color, 
some  of  them  a  dull  yellow  and  molded  in  a  queer 
gourd-like  shape.  But  the  vegetables  and  herbs 
are  the  most  inscrutable.  Even  the  gastrologer 
Epicure  was  unable  to  explain  them  all  to  me. 
Chopped  bayleaves,  artichokes,  mushrooms, 
bunches  of  red  and  green  peppers,  little  boxes  of 
dried  peas,  beans,  powdered  red  pepper,  wrinkled 
olives  and  raisins,  and  strange-smelling  bundles  of 
herbs  that  smell  only  like  straw,  but  which  pre- 
sumably possess  some  strange  seasoning  virtue  to 
those  who  understand  them.  In  the  windows  of 
the  grocers'  shops  you  will  always  find  Funghi 
secchi  della  Liguria  (Ligurian  dried  mushrooms) 
and  Finocchio  uso  Sicilia  (Fennel,  Sicilian  style), 
which  names  are  poems  in  themselves.  And,  of 
course,  the  long  Bologna  sausages — and  great 
round  loaves  of  bread. 

The  Italian  sweet  tooth  is  well  hinted  at  in 


LITTLE  ITALY 19 

the  Christian  street  pasticcerias  (pastry  shops), 
where  cakes,  macaroons,  biscuits  and  wafers  of 
every  color  beckon  to  the  eye.  Equally  chromatic 
are  the  windows  of  the  bookshops,  where  bright 
portraits  of  General  Diaz,  King  Victor  and  Presi- 
dent Wilson  beam  down  upon  knots  of  gossipers 
arguing  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  and  a 
magnificent  edition  of  the  Divina  Commedia  lies 
side  by  side  with  Amore  Proibito  and  I  Sotterranei 
di  New  York.  Another  volume  whose  title  is 
legible  even  to  one  with  scarcely  any  smattering  of 
tongues  is  II  Kaiser  All'Inferno! 

Some  of  the  shops  in  Little  Italy  seem  to  em- 
brace a  queer  union  of  trades.  For  instance,  one 
man  announces  his  office  as  a  "Funeral  agent  and 
detective  bureau";  another,  "Bookbinder  and 
flower  shop."  In  one  window  may  be  seen  elabo- 
rate plans  of  Signor  Menotti  Nanni's  Ocean  Float- 
ing Safe,  in  which  transatlantic  passengers  are 
recommended  to  stow  their  valuables.  The  ship 
may  sink  and  likewise  the  passengers,  but  in 
the  Ocean  Floating  Safe  your  jewels  and  pri- 
vate papers  will  float  off  undamaged  and  roam  the 
ocean  until  some  one  comes  to  salve  them.  The 
Italian  name  for  this  ingenious  device  is  Cassaforte 
Galleggiante,  which  we  take  to  mean  a  swimming 
strong-box. 

No  account  of  Christian  street  would  be  com- 
plete without  at  least  some  mention  of  the  theatres 
between  Eighth  and  Seventh  streets.  The  other 
afternoon  I  stopped  in  at  one  of  them,  expecting 


20 LITTLE  ITALY 

to  see  moving  pictures,  which  are  comprehensible 
in  all  languages;  but  instead  I  found  two  Italian 
comedians — a  man  and  a  woman — performing  on 
an  odd  little  stage  to  an  audience  which  roared 
applause  at  every  line.  I  was  unable  to  under- 
stand a  word,  but  the  skill  and  grace  of  the  per- 
formers were  evident,  also  the  suave  and  liquid 
versification  of  their  lines.  The  manager  walked 
continually  up  and  down  the  aisles,  rebuking  every 
sound  and  movement  other  than  legitimate  ap- 
plause with  a  torrential  hiss.  Every  time  a  baby 
squalled — and  there  were  many — the  manager 
sibilated  like  a  python.  The  audience  took  this 
quite  for  granted,  so  evidently  it  is  customary. 
It  is  a  salutary  lesson  in  modesty  to  attend  a  per- 
formance conducted  in  a  foreign  language :  there  is 
nothing  that  so  rapidly  impresses  upon  one  our 
stupid  provincial  ignorance  of  most  tongues  but 
our  own. 

Little  Italy  is  only  a  few  blocks  away  from 
Chestnut  street,  and  yet  I  daresay  thousands  of 
our  citizens  hardly  suspect  its  existence.  If  you 
chance  to  go  down  there  about  1  o'clock  some 
bright  afternoon,  when  all  the  children  are  enjoy- 
ing the  school  recess,  and  see  that  laughing,  romp- 
ing mass  of  bright-eyed  young  citizens,  you  will 
wonder  whether  they  are  to  be  congratulated  on 
growing  up  in  this  new  country  of  wonderful 
opportunity,  or  to  be  pitied  for  losing  the  beauty 
and  old  tradition  of  that  storied  peninsula  so  far 
away. 


MEETING  THE  GODS  FOR  A  DIME 


MEETING  THE  GODS  FOR  A  DIME 

IF  WE  had  to  choose  just  one  street  in  Phila- 
delphia to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  probably 
our  greatest  affection  would  be  for  Ludlow  street. 
We  have  constituted  ourself  the  president,  pub- 
licity committee  and  sole  member  of  the  Ludlow 
Street  Business  Men's  Association  and  Chamber 
of  Commerce.  We  propose  in  this  manifesto  to 
make  known  to  the  world  just  where  Ludlow 
street  is,  and  why  it  is  so  fair. 

Ludlow  street  is  not  in  any  sense  a  thoroughfare. 
It  does  not  fare  through,  for  its  course  is  estopped 
by  several  bulky  buildings.  It  reappears  here  and 
there  in  a  whimsical,  tentative  manner.  We  do 
not  pretend  to  know  all  about  Ludlow  street,  nor 
have  we  charted  its  entire  course.  But  the  pith 
and  quintessence  of  this  runnel  of  culture  is  trod 
almost  daily  by  our  earnest  feet. 

Our  doings  with  Ludlow  street  begin  when  we 
turn  off  Eleventh  street  and  caress  the  flank  of 
the  Mercantile  Library  in  an  easterly  gambit. 
Then,  with  our  nose  cocked  for  any  wandering 
savors  from  the  steaming  roast  beeves  of  a  Tenth 
street  ordinary  well  known  to  epicureans,  we  dart 
along  until  our  progress  is  barred  by  the  Federal 
Building.  This  necessitates  a  portage  through 
the  Federal  Reserve  Bank  on  to  the  roaring  coast 
of  Chestnut  street.  We  double  back  on  Ninth 


22  MEETING  THE  GODS  FOR  A  DIME 

and  find  Ludlow  reappearing  just  above  Leary's 
Book  Store. 

Here  it  is  that  our  dear  Ludlow  street  finds  its 
mission  and  meaning  in  life.  From  the  tall- 
browed  facade  of  the  Mercantile  Library  it  has 
caught  a  taste  for  literature  and  against  the  north 
wall  of  Leary's  it  indulges  itself  to  the  full.  Per- 
haps you  would  think  it  a  grimy  little  alley  as  it 
twists  blithely  round  Leary's,  but  to  us  it  is  a 
porchway  of  Paradise.  How  many  hours  we  have 
dallied  under  that  little  penthouse  shelter  mulling 
over  the  ten-cent  shelves!  All  the  rumors  and 
echoes  of  letters  find  their  way  to  Ludlow  street 
sooner  or  later.  We  can  lay  our  ear  to  those 
battered  rows  of  books  as  to  a  whorled  conch 
shell  and  hear  the  solemn  murmur  of  the  vast 
ocean  of  literature.  There  we  may  meet  the  proud 
argosies  or  the  humble  derelicts  of  that  ocean  for 
ten  cents. 

Yes,  they  all  come  to  Ludlow  street  in  the  end. 
We  have  found  Wentworth's  Arithmetic  there, 
old  foe  of  our  youth;  and  George  Eliot,  and 
Porter  (Jane)  and  Porter  (Gene  Stratton).  There 
used  to  be  a  complete  set  of  Wilkie  Collins,  bound 
in  blue  buckram,  at  the  genteel  end  of  the  street 
among  the  twenty-five  centers.  We  were  buying 
them,  one  by  one  (that  was  before  the  days  of 
thrift  stamps),  when  some  plutocrat  came  along 
and  kidnapped  the  whole  bunch.  He  was  an  un- 
discerning  plutocrat,  because  he  took  the  second 
volume  of  "The  Woman  in  White"  while  we  were 


MEETING  THE  GODS  FOR  A  DIME  23 

still  reading  the  first.  When  we  went  gayly  to  buy 
Volume  II,  lo!  it  was  gone. 

Clark  Russell  is  there,  with  his  snowy  canvassed 
yachts  dipping  and  creaming  through  azure  seas; 
and  once  in  a  while  a  tattered  Frank  Stockton  or  a 
"Female  Poets  of  America"  or  "The  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho."  We  have  learned  more  about  books 
from  Ludlow  street  than  ever  we  did  in  any  course 
at  college.  We  remember  how  we  used  to  hasten 
thither  on  Saturday  afternoons  during  our  college 
days  and,  fortified  with  an  automatic  sandwich 
and  a  cup  of  coffee,  we  would  spend  a  delirious 
three  hours  plundering  the  jeweled  caves  of  joy. 
Best  of  all  are  the  wet  days  when  the  rain  drums 
on  the  little  shelter-roof  and  drips  down  the  back 
of  the  fanatic.  But  what  true  fanatic  heeds  a 
chilled  spine  when  his  head  is  warmed  by  all  the 
fires  of  Olympus? 

Ludlow  street  has  quiet  sorrows  of  its  own, 
however.  At  the  end  of  the  ten-cent  shelves, 
redeemed  and  exalted,  even  intoxicated  by  these 
draughts  of  elixir,  it  staggers  a  little  in  its  gait. 
It  takes  a  wild  reeling  twist  round  behind  Leary's, 
clinging  to  that  fortress  of  the  Muses  as  long  as  it 
may.  And  then  comes  the  thorn  in  its  crown. 
Just  as  it  has  begun  to  fancy  itself  as  a  highbrow 
pathway  to  Helicon,  it  finds  itself  wearing  against 
its  sober  brick  wall  one  of  the  Street  Cleaning  De- 
partment's fantastic  and  long-neglected  ash  piles. 
This  abashes  the  poor  little  street  so  that  when  it 
strikes  Eighth  street  it  becomes  confused,  totters 


24    WILD  WORDS  WE  HAVE  KNOWN 

feebly  several  perches  to  the  north  and  commits 
suicide  in  a  merry  little  cul  de  sac  frequented  by 
journeymen  carpenters,  who  bury  it  in  their 
sweet-smelling  shavings. 

O  blessed  little  Ludlow  street!  You  are  to 
Philadelphia  what  the  old  book  stalls  on  the  Seine 
bank  are  to  Paris,  what  Charing  Cross  Road  is  to 
London.  You  are  the  home  and  haunt  of  the 
shyest,  sweetest  Muses  there  are:  the  Muses  of 
old  books.  The  Ludlow  Street  Business  Men's 
Association,  in  convention  assembled,  drinks  a 
beaker  of  Tom  and  Jerry  to  your  health  and  good 
fortune! 


WILD  WORDS  WE  HAVE  KNOWN 
ABOUT  noon  on  Saturday  the  city  heaves  a 
sigh  of  relief.  Indeed,  it  begins  a  little  earlier  than 
that.  About  eleven-forty  even  the  most  faithful 
stenographer  begins  to  woolgather.  Letters  dic- 
tated in  that  last  half  hour  are  likely  to  be  ad- 
dressed "Mrs.  Henrietta  Jenkins,  Esq.,"  or  "Miss 
John  Jones."  The  patient  paying  teller  has  to 
count  over  his  notes  three  times  to  be  sure  of  not 
giving  a  five  instead  of  a  one.  The  glorious 
demoralization  spreads  from  desk  to  desk.  No 
matter  who  we  are  or  how  hard  we  have  worked, 
it  is  Saturday  noon,  and  for  a  few  hours  we  are 
going  to  forget  the  war  and  spend  our  pocketful 
of  carefree  fresh-minted  minutes.  As  Tom  Daly, 
the  poet  laureate  of  Philadelphia,  puts  it — 


WILD  WORDS  WE  HAVE  KNOWN    25 

"Whenever  it's  a  Saturday  and  all  my  work  is 

through, 
I  take  a  walk  on  Chestnut  street  to  see  what  news 

is  new." 

Every  Jack  and  Jill  has  his  or  her  own  ideas  of  a 
Saturday  afternoon  adventure.  Our  stenographer 
hastens  off  with  a  laughing  group  to  the  Automat 
and  the  movies.  Our  friend  with  the  shell-rimmed 
spectacles,  tethered  by  a  broad  silk  ribbon,  is 
bound  to  the  Academy  of  the  Fine  Arts  to  censure 
the  way  Mr.  Sargent  has  creased  John  D.  Rocke- 
feller's trousers,  and  will  come  back  bursting 
with  indignation  to  denounce  the  portrait  "a 
mere  chromo."  We  ourself  hasten  to  the  Reading 
Terminal  to  meet  a  certain  pair  of  brown  eyes 
that  are  sparkling  in  from  Marathon  for  lunch 
and  a  mobilization  of  spring  millinery.  And 
others  are  off  to  breast  the  roaring  gusts  of  March 
on  the  golf  meads  or  trundle  baby  carriages  on 
the  sunny  side  of  suburban  streets. 

But  there  is  another  diversion  for  Saturday 
afternoon  that  is  very  dear  to  us,  and  sometimes 

we  are  able  to  coax  B W to  agree.  That 

is  to  spend  two  or  three  glorious  hours  in  the 
library  mulling  over  the  dictionaries.  Talk  about 
chasing  a  golfball  over  the  links  or  following 
Theda  Bara  serpentining  through  a  mile  of  cellu- 
loid, or  stalking  Tom  and  Jerry,  mystic  affinities, 
from  bar  to  bar  along  Chestnut  street — what  can 
these  excitements  offer  compared  to  a  breathless 
word-hunt  in  the  dictionaries!  Words — the 


20    WILD  WORDS  WE  HAVE  KNOWN 

noblest  quarry  of  the  sportsman !  To  follow  their 
spoor  through  the  jungles  and  champaigns  of  the 
English  language;  to  flush  them  from  their  hiding 
places  in  dense  thickets  of  Chaucer  or  Spenser, 
track  them  through  the  noble  aisles  of  Shake- 
speare forest  and  find  them  at  last  perching  gayly 
on  the  branches  of  0.  Henry  or  George  Ade! 
The  New  Oxford  Dictionary,  that  most  splendid 
monument  of  human  scholarship,  gives  moving 
pictures  of  words  from  their  first  hatching  down 
to  the  time  when  they  soar  like  eagles  in  the  open 
air  of  today. 

We  know  no  greater  joy  than  an  afternoon  spent 
with  dear  old  Dr.  Johnson's  Dictionary  of  the 
English  Language,  published  after  seven  years' 
patient  labor  in  1755.  Probably  somewhere  in 
Philadelphia  there  is  a  copy  of  the  first  edition; 
but  the  one  we  know  (at  the  Mercantile  Library) 
is  the  revised  fourth  edition  which  the  doctor  put 
out  in  1775.  One  can  hardly  read  without  a  lump 
in  the  throat  that  noble  preface  in  which  Doctor 
Johnson  rehearses  the  greatness  and  discourage- 
ment of  his  task.  And  who  can  read  too  often  his 
rebuff  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield,  who,  having 
studiously  neglected  to  aid  the  lexicographer 
during  the  long  years  of  his  compilation,  sought 
by  belated  flattery  to  associate  himself  with  the 
vast  achievement?  "Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord, 
one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  strug- 
gling for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help?" 


WILD  WORDS  WE  HAVE  KNOWN    27 

And  who  does  not  chuckle  over  the  caustic  humor 
of  the  doctor's  definitions  of  words  that  touched 
his  own  rugged  career?  "Lexicographer:  a  harm- 
less drudge;"  "book-learned:  versed  in  books  or 
literature;  a  term  implying  some  slight  con- 
tempt"; "Grub  street:  a  street  in  London  much 
inhabited  by  writers  of  small  histories,  dictionaries 
and  temporary  poems." 

O.  Henry  was  a  great  devotee  of  word-beagling 
in  dictionaries,  and  his  whimsical  "review"  of 
Webster  deserves  to  be  better  known: — 

"We  find  on  our  table  quite  an  exhaustive 
treatise  on  various  subjects  written  in  Mr.  Web- 
ster's well-known,  lucid  and  piquant  style.  There 
is  not  a  dull  line  between  the  covers  of  the  book. 
The  range  of  subjects  is  wide,  and  the  treatment 
light  and  easy  without  being  flippant.  A  valu- 
able feature  of  the  work  is  the  arranging  of  the 
articles  in  alphabetical  order,  thus  facilitating  the 
finding  of  any  particular  word  desired.  Mr. 
Webster's  vocabulary  is  large,  and  he  always  uses 
the  right  word  in  the  right  place.  Mr.  Webster's 
work  is  thorough,  and  we  predict  that  he  will  be 
heard  from  again." 

What  exhilaration  can  Theda  Bara  or  the  nine- 
teenth putting  green  offer  compared  to  the  bliss 
of  pursuing  through  a  thousand  dictionary  pages 
some  Wild  Word  We  Have  Known,  and  occa- 
sionally discovering  an  unfamiliar  creature  of 
strange  and  dazzling  plumage? 


28         THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE 


THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE 
IT  WAS  a  warm  morning.  Everybody  knew 
it  was  going  to  be  hot  later  on  and  was  bustling 
to  get  work  well  under  way  before  the  blaze  of 
noon.  The  broad  vista  of  Market  street  was 
dimmed  by  the  summer  haze  that  is  part  atmos- 
pheric and  part  gasoline  vapor.  And  as  I  strolled 
up  Sixth  street  I  kept  to  the  eastern  side,  which 
was  still  in  pleasant  shadow. 

Sixth  street  has  a  charming  versatility.  Its 
main  concern  in  the  blocks  north  of  Market  street 
seems  to  be  machinery  and  hardware — cutlery 
and  die  stamping  and  tools.  But  it  amuses  itself 
with  other  matters — printing  and  bookbinding, 
oysters  and  an  occasional  smack  of  beer.  Like 
most  of  our  downtown  streets,  it  is  well  irrigated. 
It  is  a  jolly  street  for  a  hot  day,  calling  out  many 
an  ejaculation  of  the  eye.  For  instance,  I  cannot 
resist  the  office  window  of  a  German  newspaper. 
The  samples  of  job  printing  displayed  are  so  de- 
lightful a  medley  of  the  relaxations  which  make 
the  world  safe  for  democracy.  Dance  Program  of 
the  Beer  Drivers'  Union,  Annual  Ball  of  the  Bell- 
boys of  Philadelphia,  Russian  Tea  Party,  First 
Annual  Picnic  of  the  Young  People's  Socialist 
League,  Banquet  of  the  Journeymen  Barbers' 
Union — who  would  not  have  found  honest  mirth 
(and  plenty  of  malt  and  hot  dogs)  at  these  enter- 
tainments! Just  so  we  can  imagine  Messrs. 


THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE         29 

Lenine  and  Trotsky  girding  their  seidels  for  a 
long  midsummer  day's  junket  with  the  Moscow 
Soviet.  There  also  are  the  faded  announcement 
cards  for  some  address  by  Mme.  Rosika  Schwim- 
mer  (of  Budapest),  secretary  of  the  International 
Woman  Suffrage  Alliance.  Dear  me,  what  has 
happened  to  the  indefatigable  Rosika  since  she 
and  Henry  Ford  and  others  went  bounding  and 
bickering  on  a  famous  voyage  to  Stockholm?  As 
some  steamship  company  used  to  advertise,  "In 
all  the  world,  no  trip  like  this." 

At  Race  street  I  turned  east  to  St.  John's 
Lutheran  Church.  The  church  stands  between 
Fifth  and  Sixth.  In  front  of  it,  in  a  little  semi- 
circle of  sun-bleached  grass,  stands  the  family 
vault  of  Bohl  Bohlen.  In  this  vault  lie  Brigadier 
General  W.  Henry  C.  Bohlen,  killed  in  action  at 
Freeman's  Ford  on  the  Rappahannock  River, 
August  22,  1862,  and  his  wife,  Sophie.  It  is 
interesting  to  remember  that  they  were  the  grand- 
parents of  the  present  Herr  Krupp. 

The  little  burying  ground  behind  St.  John's 
is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  spots  in  Philadel- 
phia. I  found  George  Hahn,  the  good-natured 
sexton,  cutting  the  grass,  and  he  took  me  round 
to  look  at  many  of  the  old  tombstones,  now  mostly 
unreadable.  Several  Revolutionary  veterans  came 
to  their  resting  in  that  little  acre,  among  them 
Philip  Summer,  who  died  in  1814,  and  who  is 
memorable  to  me  because  his  wife  was  called 
Solemn.  Solemn  Summer — her  name  is  carved 


30         THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE 

on  the  stone.  If  I  were  an  artist  I  should  love  to 
picture  the  quaint  huddle  of  tawny  red  brick 
overlooking  St.  John's  churchyard,  the  vistas 
of  narrow  little  streets,  the  corners  and  angles  of 
old  houses.  The  sunny  walls  of  the  burying 
ground  are  a  favorite  basking  place  for  cats  of 
all  hues — yellow,  black  and  gray.  I  envy  George 
Hahn  his  quiet  hours  of  work  in  that  silent  in- 
closure,  but  he  assured  me  that  the  grass  is  rank 
and  grows  with  dreadful  speed.  The  somewhat 
desolate  and  forgotten  air  of  the  graveyard,  with 
its  broken  stones  and  splintered  trees,  adds 
greatly  to  the  wistfulness  of  its  charm. 

Behind  the  churchyard  is  a  kind  of  enchanted 
village.  Summer  street  bounds  the  cemetery,  and 
from  this  branch  off  picturesque  little  lanes — 
Randolph  street,  for  instance,  with  its  row  of 
trim  little  red  houses,  the  white  and  green  shutters, 
the  narrow  cobbled  footway.  It  was  ironing  day 
and,  taking  a  furtive  peep  through  basement 
doors,  I  could  see  the  regular  sweep  of  busy  sad- 
irons on  white  boards.  Children  abound,  and  I 
felt  greatly  complimented  when  one  infant  called 
out  Da-Da,  as  I  passed.  Parallel  with  Randolph 
street  run  Fairhill  and  Reese — tiny  little  byways, 
but  a  kind  of  miniature  picture  of  the  older  Phila- 
delphia. Snowy  clothes  were  fluttering  from  the 
lines  and  pumps  gushing  a  silver  stream  into  wash- 
tubs.  Strong  white  arms  were  sluicing  and  lather- 
ing the  clothes,  sousing  them  in  the  bluing-tinted 
water.  Everywhere  children  were  playing  merrily 


THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE         31 

in  the  overflow.  And  there  were  window-boxes 
with  bright  flowers. 

At  the  corner  of  Reese  and  Summer  streets  is  a 
little  statuary  workshop — a  cool  dim  place,  full 
of  white  figures  and  an  elderly  man  doing  some- 
thing mysterious  with  molds.  I  would  have  liked 
to  hear  all  about  his  work,  but  as  he  was  not  very 
questionable  I  felt  too  bashful  to  insist. 

If  I  were  a  sketcher  I  would  plant  my  easel  at 
the  corner  of  Summer  and  Randolph  streets  and 
spend  a  long  day  puffing  tobacco  and  trying  to 
pencil  the  quaint  domestic  charm  of  that  vista. 
The  children  would  crowd  round  to  watch  and 
comment  and  little  by  little  I  would  learn — what 
the  drawing  would  be  only  a  pretext  for  learning — 
something  of  their  daily  mirth  and  tears.  I  would 
hear  of  their  adventurous  forays  into  the  broad 
green  space  of  Franklin  Square,  only  a  few  yards 
away.  Of  scrambles  over  the  wall  into  St.  John's 
churchyard  when  George  Hahn  isn't  looking.  Of 
the  sweets  that  may  be  bought  for  a  penny  at 
the  little  store  on  the  corner.  I  should  say  that 
store  sells  more  soap  than  anything  else.  Ran- 
dolph street  simply  glistens  with  cleanliness — all 
except  the  upper  end,  where  the  city  is  too  lazy 
to  see  that  the  garbage  is  carried  away.  But  then 
a  big  city  is  so  much  more  concerned  with  parades 
on  Broad  street  than  removing  garbage  from  the 
hidden  corners  where  little  urchins  play. 

Round  the  corner  on  Fifth  street  is  the  quaint 
cul  de  sac  of  Central  place,  which  backs  up  against 


32         THE  ENCHANTED  VILLAGE 

Reese  street,  but  does  not  run  through.  It  is  a 
quiet  little  brick  yard,  with  three  green  pumps 
(also  plopping  into  washtubs)  and  damp  garments 
fluttering  out  on  squeaky  pulley  lines  from  the 
upper  windows.  The  wall  at  the  back  of  the  court 
is  topped  with  flowers  and  morning-glory  vines. 
On  one  of  the  marble  stoops  a  woman  was  peeling 
potatoes  and  across  the  yard  a  girl  with  a  blue 
dress  was  washing  clothes.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a 
scene  out  of  one  of  Barrie's  stories. 

Who  is  the  poet  or  the  artist  of  this  little  village 
of  ruddy  brick  behind  St.  John's  graveyard?  Who 
will  tell  me  how  the  rain  lashes  down  those  narrow 
passages  during  a  summer  storm,  when  the  chil- 
dren come  scampering  home  from  Franklin 
Square?  Who  will  tell  me  of  the  hot  noons  when 
the  hokey-pokey  man  tolls  his  bright  bell  at  the 
end  of  the  street  and  mothers  search  their  purses 
for  spare  pennies?  Or  when  the  dripping  ice 
wagon  rumbles  up  the  cobbles  with  its  vast  store 
of  great  crystal  and  green  blocks  of  chill  and  per- 
haps a  few  generous  splinters  for  small  mouths 
to  suck?  I  suppose  poets  may  have  sung  the 
songs  of  those  back  streets.  If  they  haven't  they 
are  very  foolish.  The  songs  are  there. 


TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE          33 


TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE 

THE  MOUNTAINEER  has  lent  us  a  copy  of  "Do- 
mestic Manners  of  the  Americans,"  in  which  Mrs. 
Trollope,  the  mother  of  Anthony,  recorded  her  nu- 
merous chagrins  during  a  three-year  tour  among 
the  barbarians  in  1827-30. 

She  visited  Philadelphia  in  the  summer  of  1830, 
and  remarks  as  follows  upon  some  scenes  familiar 
to  us: 

"The  State  House  has  nothing  externally  to 
recommend  it  ...  there  is  a  very  pretty  in- 
closure  before  the  Walnut  street  entrance,  with 
good,  well-kept  gravel  walks.  .  .  .  Near  this 
inclosure  is  another  of  much  the  same  description, 
called  Washington  Square.  Here  there  was  an  ex- 
cellent crop  of  clover;  but  as  the  trees  are  numer- 
ous, and  highly  beautiful,  and  several  commodious 
seats  are  placed  beneath  their  shade,  it  is,  in  spite 
of  the  long  grass,  a  very  agreeable  retreat  from 
heat  and  dust.  It  was  rarely,  however,  that  I  saw 
any  of  these  seats  occupied;  the  Americans  have 
either  no  leisure  or  no  inclination  for  those  mo- 
ments of  delassement  that  all  other  people,  I  be- 
lieve, indulge  in.  Even  their  drams,  so  universally 
taken  by  rich  and  poor,  are  swallowed  standing, 
and,  excepting  at  church,  they  never  have  the  air 
of  leisure  or  repose.  This  pretty  Washington 
Square  is  surrounded  by  houses  on  three  sides,  but 
(lasso!)  has  a  prison  on  the  fourth;  it  is,  neverthe- 
less, the  nearest  approach  to  a  London  square  that 
is  to  be  found  in  Philadelphia." 


34          TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE 

Even  after  nearly  ninety  years  there  is  a  certain 
pang  in  learning  that  while  Madam  Trollope  found 
nothing  comely  about  the  exterior  of  Independence 
Hall,  she  proclaimed  New  York's  City  Hall  as 
"noble." 

Trying  to  imagine  that  we  were  Mrs.  Trollope, 
we  took  a  stroll  up  Ninth  street  in  the  bright  April 
sun.  It  was  chilly  and  the  burly  sandwich-man  of 
Market  street,  the  long-haired,  hatless  philosopher 
so  well  known  by  sight,  was  leaning  shivering  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  against  an  arc  light  standard  try- 
ing to  wrap  his  advertising  boards  around  him  like 
an  overcoat.  "  Why  don't  you  walk  up  and  down 
a  bit?"  we  asked  him,  after  he  had  rebuked  the 
thermometer  with  a  robust  adjective  which  would 
have  caused  Mrs.  Trollope  to  call  for  hartshorn 
and  ammonia. 

"Can't  do  it,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  bum  job 
today.  Got  to  stand  on  this  corner,  advertising  a 
new  drug  store;  7:30  to  12:30  and  1:30  to  5:30. 
It's  a  long  day,  I'll  say  so." 

Ninth  street  above  Market  is  a  delightful  and 
varied  world  in  itself.  At  the  corner  of  Filbert  we 
found  the  following  chalked  on  a  modest  black- 
board: 

Irish  Stew 

Pot  Roast 

2  Vegatables 

15c 

Within,  a  number  of  citizens  were  taking  those 
standing  drams  Mrs.  Trollope  deprecated.  We 


TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE          35 

were  reminded  by  these  social  phenomena  that  we 
had  not  lunched.  In  a  neighboring  beanery  we 
dealt  with  a  delightful  rhubarb  pie,  admiring  the 
perfection  of  the  waitress's  demeanor.  Neither  too 
condescending  nor  too  friendly,  she  laid  the  units 
of  our  repast  upon  the  marble  table  with  a  firm 
clank  which  seemed  to  imply  that  our  eating  there 
meant  nothing  to  her;  yet  she  hoped  we  might 
find  nourishment  enough  not  to  die  on  her  hands. 
The  assorted  attractions  of  North  Ninth  street 
never  fail  the  affectionate  stroller.  Novelty  shops 
where  mysterious  electric  buzzers  vibrate  and 
rattle  on  the  plate-glass  panes,  and  safety  razors 
reach  bottomless  prices  that  would  tempt  even  a 
Russian  statesman  to  unbush.  Picture  shops, 
where  such  really  delightful  sentimental  engrav- 
ings as  "The  End  of  the  Skein"  cause  soft-hearted 
bystanders  to  fly  home  and  write  to  dear  old  grand 
mother;  wine  shops  where  electric  bulbs  shimmer 
all  day  long  within  pyramids  of  gin  bottles.  "Stock 
Up  Before  July  First!"  cries  the  vintner.  "There's 
a  Bad  Time  Coming!"  And  he  adds: 

We  know  a  man  who  sells  a 

quart  of  water  with  a  little 

cheap  whisky  in  it 

VERY  CHEAP 

Morale ! 

If  you  really  want  a  highball 
buy  our,  etc. 

The  animal  shops  always  attract  the  passers-by. 
One   window   was    crowded   with    new-hatched 


36          TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE 

chicks,  tender  yellow  balls  of  fluff  that  cause 
grizzled  bums  to  moralize  droopingly  on  the  sweet- 
ness of  youth  and  innocence.  They  (the  chicks) 
were  swarming  around  their  feeding  pans  like 
diplomats  at  the  Hotel  Crillon  in  Paris. 

These  feeding  pans  are  made  like  circular  mouse- 
traps, with  small  holes  just  large  enough  for  the 
chicks  to  thrust  in  their  heads.  One  ambitious 
infant,  however,  a  very  Trotzky  among  chicks, 
had  got  quite  inside  the  pan,  and  three  purple- 
nosed  Falstaffs  on  the  pavement  were  waiting  with 
painful  agitation  to  see  whether  he  would  emerge 
safely.  In  a  goldfish  bowl  above,  spotted  newts 
were  swimming,  advertised  at  fifteen  cents  each  as 
desirable  "scavengas."  Baby  turtles  the  size  of  a 
dollar  piece  were  crawling  over  one  another  in  a 
damp  tray.  Bright-eyed  rabbits  twitched  their 
small  noses  along  the  pane. 

Then  came  Louis  Guanissno,  the  famous  balloon 
man,  moving  along  in  a  blaze  of  color,  his  red  and 
blue  and  yellow  balloons  tugging  and  gleaming  in 
the  sunny  air.  Louis  is  a  poem  to  watch,  a  poly- 
chrome joy  to  behold.  And  such  graceful  suavity ! 
"Here's  health  and  prosperity,  and  God  bless 
you,"  he  says,  his  kindly  rugged  face  looking  down 
at  you;  "and  when  you  want  any  little  bal- 
loons"— 

On  a  sunny  afternoon  there  are  sure  to  be  many 
browsers  picking  over  the  dusty  volumes  in  the 
pavement  boxes  of  that  little  bookshop  near  the 
old  archway  above  Filbert  street.  Down  the  dark 


TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE          37 

alley  that  runs  under  the  archway  horses  stand 
munching  their  nosebags,  while  a  big  yellow  coal 
wagon,  lost  in  the  cul-de-sac,  tries  desperately  to 
turn  around.  The  three  big  horses  clatter  and 
crash  on  the  narrow  paving.  A  first  edition  of 
"Rudder  Grange"  for  fifteen  cents  wasn't  a  bad 
find.  (I  saw  it  listed  in  a  recent  bookseller's  cata- 
logue for  $2.50.)  By  prying  up  a  flyleaf  that  had 
been  pasted  down  I  learned  that  "Uncle  George" 
had  given  it  to  Helen  L.  Coates  for  "Xmas, 
1880." 

Up  at  the  Arch  street  corner  is  the  famous 
Dumont's  Minstrels,  once  the  old  Dime  Museum, 
where  Frank  Dumont's  picture  stands  in  the  lobby 
draped  in  black.  Inside,  in  the  quaint  old  audi- 
torium, the  interlocutor  sits  on  his  throne  and 
tosses  the  traditional  jest  back  and  forth  with  the 
end  men,  Bennie  Franklin  and  Alf  Gibson,  clad 
in  their  glaring  scarlet  frock-coats.  The  old  quips 
about  Camden  are  still  doing  brave  service.  Then 
Eddie  Cassady  comes  on  in  his  cream-colored  duds 
and  sings  a  ditty  about  Ireland  and  freedom  while 
he  waves  the  banner  with  the  harp.  Beneath  the 
japes  on  prohibition  there  is  an  undertone  of  pro- 
found sadness.  Joe  Hamilton  sings  a  song  which 
professes  to  explain  that  July  1st  will  be  harder 
on  the  ladies  than  any  one  else.  "Good-by,  Wild 
Women,  Good-by,"  it  is  demurely  called.  Joe 
Hortiz  gets  "Come  Back  to  the  Farm"  over  the 
footlights,  a  plaintive  tenor  appeal,  in  which  the 
church  steeple  chimes  3  (a.  m.)  and  all  the  audi- 


38          TRAILING  MRS.  TROLLOPE 

ence  can  hear  the  cows  lowing  out  in  Manayunk 
and  Marcus  Hook.  We  are  all  nigh  to  tears  for 
the  little  sister  gone  astray  in  the  bad  mad  city; 
but  here  come  Burke  and  Walsh  in  a  merry  little 
duo  about  whistle- wetting.  "We  took  this  coun- 
try from  the  Indians,"  sings  Burke.  "  We'll  give 
it  back  after  the  1st  of  July,"  replies  Walsh  in  his 
dulcet  barytone.  Then,  to  show  they  really  don't 
care  so  much,  they  wind  up  with  a  jovial  bit  of 
dancing. 

Dumont's  famous  "timely  burlesques"  still 
keep  pace  with  the  humors  of  the  town.  The 
"Drug  Store  Telephone  Fight"  reduces  the  audi- 
ence to  cheery  hysteria.  Joe  Hamilton  or  some 
body  gets  Saint  Peter  on  the  wire;  the  rival  dem- 
onstrator gets  connected  with  "the  other  place." 
The  problem  is  whether  the  Jazzbo  Phone  Com- 
pany or  its  rival  can  locate  the  whereabouts  of  Mr. 
William  Goat,  who  (it  appears)  is  the  father  of 
the  interlocutor,  the  dignified  interlocutor  in  his 
purple  dress  suit,  who  is  writhing  in  embarrassed 
distress  on  his  throne.  And  then,  as  we  are  already 
trespassing  on  the  preserve  of  the  dramatic  editor, 
comes  what  the  program  calls  "intermission  of 
several  minutes,  to  enable  the  ladies  to  powder 
their  noses." 


THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME     39 


THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME 
PHILADELPHIA'S  hands  were  tied  in  the  matter  of 
welcoming  the  Haverford.  What  a  greeting  we 
could  have  given  her  men  if  they  had  been  per- 
mitted to  parade  through  the  center  of  the  city, 
past  Independence  Hall — the  symbol  of  all  they 
fought  for — and  down  the  shining  sweep  of  Broad 
street!  And  yet,  although  we  were  morosely  for- 
bidden to  "come  in  contact  with  them"  (it  sounds 
rather  like  the  orders  given  to  citizens  of  Coblenz), 
what  a  fine  human  note  there  was  in  the  mass  of 
humbler  citizens  that  greeted  the  transport  at  the 
foot  of  Washington  avenue.  I  wish  Mr.  Baker 
might  have  been  there — the  scene  would  have  made 
him  more  tender  toward  those  loyal  Philadelphians 
who  don't  quite  see  why  most  of  the  transports 
should  dock  at — well,  at  another  Atlantic  port! 

But  I  hadn't  intended  to  go  down  to  see  the 
Haverford  come  in.  I  have  traveled  on  her  myself 
and  know  her  genial  habits  of  procrastination.  I 
shrewdly  suspected  she  would  arrive  at  her  dock 
long  after  the  hour  announced.  Days  ago,  when 
we  were  told  she  would  arrive  on  the  27th,  I 
smiled  knowingly.  When  she  was  off  the  Capes 
and  word  was  telegraphed  of  a  ''disabled  steering 
gear,"  I  chuckled.  The  jovial  old  ship  was  her- 
self again!  It  is  almost  incredible  that  an  enemy 
submarine  should  have  dared  to  fire  a  tin  fish  at 
her.  I  should  think  a  cautious,  subaqueous  com- 


40     THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME 

mander  would  have  sheered  off  and  dived  away 
in  panic,  fearing  some  devil's  ruse.  Surely  no 
harmless  vessel  (he  ought  to  have  gutturaled  to 
himself)  would  travel  as  leisurely  as  that!  How 
many  U-boat  captains  must  have  fled  her  dignified 
presence,  suspecting  her  to  be  one  of  Beatty's  trick 
fleet,  sent  out  to  lure  innocent  submarines  to 
death  by  loitering  blandly  on  the  purple  sea.  This 
is  no  ill-natured  jibe.  Slow  ships  are  ever  the  best 
to  travel  on.  Her  unruffled,  imperceptible  pro- 
gress across  blue  horizons  is  her  greatest  charm, 
and  was  undoubtedly  her  subtle  security. 

But  passing  along  Pine  street,  about  thirty  to- 
bacco whiffs  after  breakfast,  I  saw  three  maidens 
run  out  from  the  Peirce  School  in  a  high  cackle  of 
feminine  excitement.  Evidently  they  had  been 
let  off  for  the  day.  "What  shall  we  do  with  these 
old  books?"  I  heard  one  say.  "Do  we  have  to 
cart  them  round  with  us?"  It  was  plain  from 
their  gleeful  chatter  that  they  were  bound  for 
Washington  avenue.  And  then  on  Broad  street  I 
saw  little  groups  of  pedestrians  hurrying  south- 
ward. Over  that  spacious  thoroughfare  there  was 
a  feeling  of  suspense  and  excitement — the  feeling 
of  "something  happening"  that  passes  so  quickly 
from  brain  to  brain.  I  could  not  resist  temptation 
to  go  down  and  join  the  throng. 

Washington  avenue  is  not  a  boulevard  of  pleas- 
ure. Most  of  it  is  a  dreary  expanse  of  huge  fac- 
tories and  freight  cars.  But  over  the  cobbles  citi- 
zens of  all  sorts  were  hurrying  with  bright  faces. 


THE  IIAVERFORD  COMES  HOME     41 

Peddlers  carried  bundles  of  flags  and  knots  of 
colored  balloons,  which  tugged  and  eddied  in  the 
cold  wind.  In  an  Italian  drug  store  at  the  corner 
of  Sixth,  under  a  sign,  Telefono  Pubblico  per 
Qualsiasi  Distanza,  a  distracted  pretzel  basket 
man,  who  had  already  sold  out  his  wares,  was 
calling  up  some  distant  base  of  supplies  in  the  hope 
of  replenishing  his  stock.  Jefferson  Square,  brown 
and  leafless,  was  packed  with  people.  Down  by 
the  docks  loomed  up  a  tall,  black  funnel,  dribbling 
smoke.  "There  she  is!"  cried  an  excited  lady, 
leaping  from  cobble  to  cobble.  For  a  moment  I 
almost  apologized  to  the  good  old  Haverford  for 
having  misjudged  her.  Was  she  really  docked  al- 
ready, on  the  tick  of  time?  Then  I  saw  that  the 
vessel  in  sight  had  only  two  masts,  and  I  knew 
that  my  old  favorite  had  four. 

The  crowd  at  the  lower  end  of  Washington 
avenue  was  immense,  held  firmly  in  check  by 
mounted  police.  Red  Cross  ambulances  and 
trucks  were  slowly  butting  their  way  down  to  the 
pier,  envied  by  us  humbler  souls  who  had  no  way 
of  getting  closer.  Perched  on  a  tall  wagon  a  group 
of  girls,  apparently  factory  hands,  were  singing 
merrily  "Bring  Back  My  Bonnie  to  Me."  On 
every  side  I  heard  scraps  of  detached  conversation. 
"  He  was  wounded  and  gassed,  and  he  says  'if  they 
send  me  back  to  that  stuff  it'll  be  in  a  box.'  " 
Sheltering  behind  a  stout  telephone  pole,  perhaps 
the  very  one  which  was  flinging  the  peddler's  an- 
guished cry  for  more  pretzels,  I  sought  a  light  for 


42     THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME 

my  pipe  and  found  myself  gazing  on  a  red-printed 
dodger:  "WORKING  CLASS,  KNOW  THE 
TRUTH.  The  workers  of  Russia  have  done  away 
with  the  capitalistic,  distroctive,  parasitic  sistem, 
which  on  one  hand  creates  Millionaires  and  luxury 
and  on  the  other  hobos  and  misery." 

The  longest  way  round  is  usually  the  shortest 
way  home,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  the  grave- 
yard of  Old  Swedes  Church  would  be  a  useful 
vantage  point.  I  found  my  way  there  down  the 
quaint  little  vista  of  League  street  and  the  oddly 
named  channel  of  Reckless  street.  Apparently  the 
same  thought  had  occurred  to  several  other  wise- 
acres, for  I  got  to  the  gates  just  as  the  sexton  was 
locking  them.  Ignoring  the  generous  offer  that 
the  church  makes  on  several  signboards — "$10 
Reward  for  Any  Person  Found  Destroying  the 
Church  Property" — I  took  my  stand  at  one  corner 
of  the  churchyard,  looking  out  over  the  docks  and 
the  thousands  crowded  along  the  pavements  be- 
low. Reading  the  tombstones  passed  away  the 
time  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour. 

One  sad  little  inscription  runs  like  this: 

LIZZIE 

affectionate  daughter  of 

died  Dec.  24,  1857 

When  Christmas  bells  ring  out  their  chime 
And  holly  boughs  and  sprigs  of  thyme 

Were  hung  on  many  a  wall, 
Our  LIZZIE  in  her  beauty's  prime 

Lay  in  our  darkened  hall. 


THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME     43 

Escaping  the  chilly  wind  that  blew  up  from  the 
river  I  spent  some  time  studying  the  interior  of  the 
lovely  little  church  and  reading  the  epitaphs  of  the 
old  Swedish  pastors.  Of  Olaf  Parlin,  one  of  these, 
it  is  nobly  written  "And  in  the  Last  Combat, 
strengthened  by  Heavenly  Succours,  he  Quit  the 
Field  not  Captive  but  Conqueror." 

But  still  there  was  no  sign  of  the  Haverford.  I 
strolled  up  the  waterfront,  stopping  by  the  barge 
Victor  to  admire  a  very  fat  terrier  fondled  by  the 
skipper's  wife.  I  was  about  to  ask  if  I  could  step 
aboard,  thinking  that  the  deck  of  the  barge  would 
afford  a  rather  better  view  of  the  hoped-for  trans- 
port, when  I  saw  the  ferry  Peerless,  one  of  the 
three  ancient  oddities  that  ply  between  South 
street  and  Gloucester.  And  at  the  same  moment 
the  whistles  down  the  river  began  to  blow  a  deep, 
vibrant  chorus.  Obviously,  the  best  way  to  see 
the  Haverford  was  to  take  a  deep  sea  voyage  to 
Gloucester. 

And  so  it  was.  When  the  Peerless  pulled  away 
from  her  slip  the  first  thing  we  saw  was  the  recep- 
tion boat  City  of  Camden,  with  the  Mayor's  com- 
mittee aboard,  backing  up-stream  in  a  flutter  of 
flags.  And  then  we  came  right  abreast  of  the  big 
liner,  which  had  just  come  opposite  her  pier. 
She  stood  very  high  in  the  water,  and  seems  none 
the  worse  for  the  five  months'  ducking  she  is  said 
to  have  had.  Her  upper  decks  were  brown  with 
men,  all  facing  away  from  us,  however,  to  acknowl- 
edge the  roar  of  cheering  from  the  piers.  So  they 
4 


44     THE  HAVERFORD  COMES  HOME 

did  not  hear  the  feeble  piping  set  up  by  the  few 
intrepid  travelers  to  Gloucester.  A  spinster  next 
to  me  cried  out  entranced:  "Oh,  I  would  like  to 
take  each  of  those  boys  and  hug  them." 

A  ship  is  always  a  noble  sight,  and  while  the 
Haverford  was  never  built  for  beauty,  she  has  the 
serene  dignity  of  one  who  has  gone  about  many 
hard  tasks  in  her  own  uncomplaining  fashion. 
She  has  a  large  and  solid  stateliness.  Hurricanes 
cannot  hustle  her,  nor  have  all  the  hosts  of  Tirpitz 
marred  her  sturdy  comelihood.  Her  funnel  is  too 
outrageously  tall  and  lean,  her  bows  too  bluff,  her 
beam  too  broad  for  her  to  take  on  any  of  the 
queenly  grace  of  her  slim  and  swagger  sisters.  She 
is  a  square-toed,  useful  kind  of  creature;  just  the 
sort  of  vessel  the  staid  Delaware  loves,  with  no 
swank  or  swagger.  And  yet,  in  the  clear  yellow 
light  of  the  winter  morning,  she  seemed  to  have  a 
new  and  very  lovely  beauty.  Her  masts  were 
dressed  with  flags,  from  the  bright  ripple  of  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  at  the  fore  to  the  deep  scarlet  of 
her  own  Red  Ensign  over  the  taffrail.  Half  a 
dozen  tugs  churned  and  kicked  beside  her  as  she 
swung  slowly  to  the  dock.  Over  the  water  came 
a  continuous  roar  of  cheering  as  the  waiting  thou- 
sands tried  to  say  what  was  in  their  hearts.  In 
the  crude  language  of  the  Board  of  Health,  her 
passengers  had  not  been  "disinfected"  and  we 
were  not  to  be  allowed  "contact"  with  them;  but 
they  had  traveled  far  and  dared  much;  they  had 
gone  out  hoping  no  gain;  they  had  come  back 


MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA      45 

asking  no  glory.  From  the  low  deck  of  the  Peer- 
less we  could  see  them  waving  their  brown  caps 
against  the  bright  blue  nothingness  of  the  skyline. 
They  were  home  again,  and  we  were  glad. 


MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA 

IF  A  Philadelphia!!  of  a  hundred  years  ago  could 
walk  along  our  streets  at  night,  undoubtedly  the 
first  thing  that  would  startle  him  would  be  the 
amazing  dazzle  of  light  that  floods  from  all  the 
shop  windows.  Particularly  during  the  few  weeks 
directly  preceding  Christmas  city  streets  at  night 
present  a  panorama  that  would  cure  the  worst  fit 
of  the  blues.  What  a  glowing  pageant  they  are, 
blazing  with  radiance  and  color!  Here  and  there 
you  will  find  a  display  ornamented  with  Christmas 
trees  and  small  red,  blue  and  green  electric  bulbs. 
Perhaps  there  will  be  a  toy  electric  train  running 
merrily  all  night  long  on  a  figure-eight-shaped 
track,  passing  through  imitation  tunnels  and 
ravines  with  green  artificial  moss  cunningly  glued 
to  them;  over  ravishing  switches  and  grade  cross- 
ings, past  imposing  stations  and  little  signal  tow- 
ers. Perhaps  you  may  be  lured  by  the  shimmer  of 
a  jeweler's  window,  set  with  rows  and  rows  of  gold 
watches  on  a  slanting  plush  or  satin  background. 
There,  if  you  are  a  patient  observer,  you  will 
usually  find  one  of  the  ultra-magnificent  time- 
pieces that  have  an  old-fashioned  railroad  train 


46      MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA 

engraved  on  the  case.  We  have  always  admired 
these  hugely,  but  never  felt  any  overwhelming 
desire  to  own  one.  They  are  sold  for  $14.95,  being 
worth  $150. 

Sometimes  even  the  most  domestic  man  is  ma- 
rooned in  town  for  the  evening.  It  is  always,  after 
the  first  pang  of  homesickness  is  over,  an  enlarging 
experience.  Instead  of  the  usual  rush  for  train  or 
trolley  he  loiters  after  leaving  the  office,  strolling 
leisurely  along  the  pavements  and  enjoying  the 
clear  blue  chill  of  the  dusk.  Perhaps  the  pallid 
radiance  of  a  barber's  shop,  with  its  white  bowls  of 
light,  lures  him  in  for  a  shave,  and  he  meditates  on 
the  impossibility  of  avoiding  the  talcum  powder 
that  barbers  conceal  in  the  folds  of  a  towel  and 
suddenly  clap  on  his  razed  face  before  they  let  him 
go.  It  avails  not  to  tell  a  barber  "No  powder!" 
They  put  it  on  automatically.  We  know  one  man 
who  thinks  that  heaven  will  be  a  place  where  one 
may  lie  back  in  a  barber's  chair  and  have  endless 
hot  towels  applied  to  a  fresh-shaved  face.  It  is  an 
attractive  thought. 

But  the  most  delightful  haunt  of  man,  about 
7  o'clock  of  a  winter  evening,  is  the  popular  lunch 
room.  This  admirable  institution  has  been 
hymned  often  and  eloquently,  but  it  can  never  be 
sufficiently  praised.  To  sit  at  one  of  those  white- 
topped  tables  looking  over  the  evening  paper  (and 
now  that  the  big  silver-plated  sugar  bowls  have 
come  back  again  there  is  once  more  something 
large  enough  on  the  table  to  prop  the  newspaper 


MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA      47 

against)  and  consume  sausages  and  griddle  cakes 
and  hot  mince  pie  and  revel  in  the  warm  human 
glitter  round  about,  is  as  near  a  modest  100  per 
cent  of  interesting  satisfaction  as  anything  we 
know.  Joyce  Kilmer,  a  very  human  poet  and  a 
very  stout  eater,  used  to  believe  that  abundant 
rneals  were  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  sleep.  For 
our  own  part,  we  are  always  ready  to  postpone  bed 
if  there  is  any  prospect  of  something  to  eat.  But 
we  do  not  like  to  elaborate  this  subject  any  fur- 
ther, for  it  makes  us  hungry  to  do  so,  and  we  dare 
not  leave  the  typewriter  just  yet. 

Our  marooned  business  man,  after  a  stroll  along 
the  streets  and  a  meal  at  the  lunch  room,  may  very 
likely  drop  in  at  the  movies.  Most  of  us  nowadays 
worship  now  and  then  at  this  shrine  of  Professor 
Muybridge.  The  public  is  long  suffering,  and 
seems  fairly  well  pleased  at  almost  anything  that 
appears  on  the  screen.  But  the  extraordinary 
thing  at  a  movie  is  hardly  ever  what  is  on  the 
screen,  but  rather  the  audience  itself.  Observe  the 
mute,  expectant,  almost  reverent  attention.  The 
darkened  house  crowded  with  people  prayerfully 
and  humbly  anxious  to  be  amused  or  thrilled!  One 
wonders  what  their  evenings  must  have  been  like 
when  there  were  no  movies  if  their  present  reaction 
is  so  passionately  devout.  A  movie  audience  is  a 
more  moving  spectacle  than  any  of  the  flashing 
shadows  that  beam  before  it.  If  all  this  mar- 
velous attention-energy,  gathered  every  evening 
in  every  city  in  the  land,  could  be  focussed  for  a 


48      MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA 

few  moments  on  some  of  the  urgent  matters  that 
concern  the  world  now — say  the  League  of  Nations 
— it  would  be  a  wonderful  aid  to  good  citizenship. 
The  movies  are  blindly  groping  their  way,  by 
means  of  current-event  films,  war  films  and  the 
like,  toward  an  era  in  which  they  will  play  a  lead- 
ing and  indispensable  part  in  education  and  civic 
life. 

It  should  be  a  function  of  every  large  city  gov- 
ernment to  provide  "municipal  movies,"  by  which 
we  mean  not  free  motion-picture  shows,  but  reels 
of  film  distributed  free  among  all  the  motion-pic- 
ture theatres  in  the  city,  exhibiting  various  phases 
of  municipal  activity  and  illustrating  by  sugges- 
tion how  citizens  may  co-operate  to  increase  the 
welfare  of  the  community.  We  hear  a  good  deal 
about  street-cleaning  evils,  about  rapid-transit 
problems,  about  traffic  congestion,  about  the  evils 
of  public  spitting,  the  danger  of  one-way  streets 
and  a  score  of  other  matters.  All  these  could  be 
interestingly  illuminated  on  the  screen,  with  seri- 
ous intent,  and  yet  with  the  racy  human  touch 
that  always  enlivens  the  common  affairs  of  men. 
And  when  some  discussion  arises  that  concerns  us 
all,  such  as  the  character  of  the  proposed  war 
memorial,  various  types  of  memorials  could  be 
illustrated  in  films  to  stimulate  public  suggestion 
as  to  what  is  most  fitting  for  our  environment. 
None  of  us  know  our  own  city  as  well  as  we  would 
like  to.  Let  the  city  government,  through  some 
film  bureau,  show  us  our  own  citizens  at  work  and 


MAROONED  IN  PHILADELPHIA      49 

play  and  so  quicken  our  curiosity  and  civic  pride 
or  shame,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Another  public  clubhouse  which  the  marooned 
business  man  finds  delightful  and  always  full  of 
good  company  is  the  railroad  terminal.  A  big  rail- 
road station  is  an  unfailing  source  of  amusement 
and  interest.  From  news-stand  to  lunch  counter, 
from  baggage  room  to  train  gate,  it  is  rich  in  char- 
acter study  and  the  humors  of  humanity  in  flux. 
People  are  rarely  at  their  best  when  hurried  or 
worried,  and  many  of  those  one  meets  at  the 
terminal  are  in  those  moods.  But,  for  any  rational 
student  of  human  affairs,  it  is  as  well  to  ponder  our 
vices  as  well  as  our  virtues,  and  the  statistician 
might  tabulate  valuable  data  as  to  the  number  of 
tempers  lost  on  the  railway  station  stairs  daily  or 
the  number  of  cross  words  uttered  where  com- 
muters stand  in  line  to  buy  their  monthly  tickets. 
The  influence  of  the  weather,  the  time  of  year  and 
the  time  of  day  would  bring  interesting  factors  to 
bear  upon  these  figures. 

There  is  just  one  more  pastime  that  the  casta- 
way of  our  imagination  finds  amusing,  and  that  is 
acting  as  door-opener  for  innumerable  cats  that 
sit  unhappily  at  the  front  doors  of  little  shops  on 
cold  evenings.  They  have  been  shut  out  by  chance 
and  sit  waiting  in  patient  sadness  on  the  cold  sill 
until  the  door  ma}'  chance  to  open.  To  open  the 
door  for  them  and  watch  them  run  inside,  with 
tail  erect  and  delighted  gesture,  is  a  real  pleasure. 
With  a  somewhat  similar  pleasure  does  the  ma- 


50       THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY 

rooned  wanderer  ultimately  reach  his  own  front 
door  and  rededicate  himself  to  the  delights  of 
home. 


THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY 

WHENEVER  I  feel  weary  of  life,  liberty  and  the 
pursuit  of  some  one  else's  happiness,  whenever 
some  one  tells  me  that  the  League  of  Nations  is 
sure  to  be  a  failure,  or  reminds  me  that  the  Ameri- 
can Press  Humorists  are  going  to  hold  their  con- 
vention here  next  June  and  we  shall  all  have  to 
flog  our  lethargic  brains  into  competition  with  all 
the  twenty-one-karat  drolls  of  this  hemisphere — 
whenever,  in  short,  life  is  wholly  gray  and  oblique, 
I  resort  to  Veranda's  for  lunch. 

Veranda's,  of  course,  is  not  its  name;  nor  shall 
I  tell  you  where  it  is.  Eighteen  months  of  faithful 
lunching  and,  perhaps,  half  a  ton  of  spaghetti  con- 
sumed, have  given  me  a  certain  prestige  in  the 
bright  eyes  of  Rosa,  the  demurest  and  most  inno- 
cently charming  waitress  in  Philadelphia.  I  do 
not  wish  to  send  competitors  in  her  regard  flocking 
to  that  quiet  little  Italian  restaurant,  where  the 
table  cloths  are  so  white,  the  coffee  so  fragrant  and 
where  the  liver  and  kidneys  come  to  the  board 
swimming  in  a  rich  brown  gravy  the  reality  of 
which  no  words  can  approach.  And  that  Italian 
bread,  so  crisply  crusted,  so  soft  and  absorbent 
within!  A  slab  of  Veranda's  bread  dipped  in  that 


THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY       51 

kidney  gravy  atones  for  three  speeches  by  Senator 
Sherman !  And  then  when  Rosa  brings  on  the  tall 
pot  of  marmalade,  which  another  devotee  and  I 
keep  there  for  dessert,  and  we  light  up  our  ciga- 
rettes and  watch  the  restaurant  cat  sprawling  in 
Oriental  luxury  by  the  steam  pipes — then  we  come 
somewhere  near  the  throne  of  human  felicity  men- 
tioned by  Doctor  Johnson. 

Veranda's  is  an  outpost  of  Little  Italy,  which 
does  not  really  begin  until  you  get  south  of  Lom- 
bard. And  the  other  day,  after  lowering  the  level 
of  the  marmalade  by  several  inches,  it  occurred  to 
me  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  Little  Italy 
proper. 

Ninth  street  is  the  best  channel  of  approach  to 
Philadelphia's  Mediterranean  colony.  There  is  a 
good  deal  to  distract  attention  before  you  cross  the 
Alps  of  South  street.  If  you  have  a  taste  for  alleys 
you  will  be  likely  to  take  a  side  tour  of  a  few  versts 
in  the  quaint  section  of  stables  and  little  brick 
houses  that  lies  just  below  Locust  street  and  be- 
tween Ninth  and  Tenth.  Just  now  you  will  find 
that  region  liberally  placarded  with  small  neat 
notices  announcing  the  loss  (on  January  8)  of  a 
large  yellow  and  white  Angora  cat,  having  white 
face,  breast  and  feet  and  answering  to  the  name  of 
Taffy.  This  struck  at  my  heart,  for  I  once  owned 
a  yellow  Angora  of  the  same  name,  which  I 
smuggled  home  from  Boston  one  Christmas  Eve 
in  a  Pullman  sleeper,  against  all  railway  rules,  and 
I  hope  and  trust  that  by  this  time  Taffy  has  re- 


52       THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY 

turned  to  his  home  at  260  South  Ninth  street,  and 
to  Mrs.  Walter  M.  James,  his  bereaved  mistress. 

The  little  notice  about  the  recreant  Master 
Taffy  was  strangely  appropriate  for  this  queer 
little  district  of  Hutchinson,  Delhi,  Irving  and 
Manning  streets,  for  it  is  just  what  in  London 
would  be  known  as  a  "mews."  It  is  a  strange 
huddle  of  old  brick  houses,  full  of  stables  and  car- 
penters' workshops,  with  agreeable  vistas  of 
chimneys,  attic  windows,  and  every  now  and  then 
a  gentleman  of  color  leisurely  bestraddling  a  horse 
and  clumping  along  the  quiet  pavements.  Small 
brown  dogs  of  miscellaneous  heritage  sit  sunning 
themselves  on  doorsteps;  on  Hutchinson  street  a 
large  cart  was  receiving  steaming  forkloads  of 
stable  straw.  In  the  leisurely  brightness  of  mid- 
afternoon,  with  occasional  old  clo'  men  chanting 
their  litany  down  the  devious  alleyways,  it  seems 
almost  village-like  in  its  repose.  A  great  place  to 
lead  a  fat  detective  a  chase !  The  next  time  George 
Gibbs  or  John  Mclntyre  writes  a  tale  of  mystery 
and  sleuthing,  I  hope  he  will  use  the  local  color 
of  Delhi  street.  Why  do  our  native  authors  love 
to  lay  the  scenes  of  their  yarns  in  "Venice,  Madrid, 
Brooklyn  or  almost  anywhere  except  Philadelphia? 

On  Ninth  street  below  Pine  one  comes  upon  a 
poem  in  a  window  which  interested  me  because  the 
author,  Mr.  Otis  Gans  Fletcher,  has  evidently  had 
difficulty  with  those  baffling  words  "Ye"  and 
"Thou,"  which  have  puzzled  even  greater  poets — 


THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY       53 

such  as  Don  Marquis.    The  poem  is  called  "Wel- 
come to  Our  Heroes/'  and  begins: 

Welcome!  home,  Great  Heroes, 
Nobly!  hath  thou  fought 

and  continues, 

We  know  the  price,  the  sacrifice 
That  ye  each  paid  to  learn, 

and  by  and  by  concludes: 

Welcome!  thrice!!!  welcome,  Great  Heroes, 

Defenders  of  Humanity; 
The  world  now  lives,  on  what  thou  didst  give, 

For  the  great  spirit,  De-moc-ra-cy. 

After  putting  Lombard  street  behind  the 
voyager  becomes  immediately  aware  of  the  Italian 
atmosphere.  Brightly  colored  cans  of  olive  oil 
wanton  in  the  windows;  the  Tripoli  Barber  Supply 
Company,  whose  window  shines  with  all  manner 
of  lotions  and  shampoos,  offers  the  Vesuvius  Qui- 
nine Tonic,  which  is  said  to  supply  "unrivaled 
neutrement "  for  the  hair.  Little  shops  appear  dis- 
playing that  curious  kind  of  painting  which  seems 
to  be  executed  on  some  metallic  surface  and  is 
made  more  vivid  by  the  insertion  of  small  wafers 
of  mother-of-pearl  where  the  artist  wants  to  throw 
in  a  note  of  high  emotion.  These  paintings  gen- 
erally portray  Gothic  chapels  brooding  by  lakes  of 
ultramarine  splendor;  their  only  popular  com- 
petitor is  a  scene  of  a  white  terrier  with  an  expres- 
sion of  fixed  nobility  watching  over  the  bedside  of  a 


54       THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY 

young  female  innocent  who  lies,  clad  in  a  blue 
dress,  beneath  a  scarlet  coverlet,  her  golden  locks 
spread  over  a  white  pillow.  The  faithfulness  of  the 
animal  and  the  secure  repose  of  the  child  may  be 
profitably  studied  in  the  length  of  time  necessary 
to  light  a  pipe.  I  feel  sure  that  no  kind-hearted 
footpad's  home  is  complete  without  this  picture. 
The  Ronaldson  Cemetery,  laid  out  in  1827  at 
Ninth  and  Bainbridge  streets,  comes  as  a  distinct 
shock  to  a  sentimental  wayfarer  already  un- 
manned by  the  above  appeal  to  the  emotions. 
Mrs.  Meredith,  the  kindly  caretaker,  admitted 
me  through  the  massive  iron  gates,  surprised  and 
pleased  to  find  a  devotee  of  cemeteries.  In  the 
damp  chill  of  a  February  afternoon  the  old  grave- 
yard is  not  the  cheeriest  of  spots,  but  I  was  re- 
stored to  optimism  by  this  inscription: 

Passing  stranger  think  this  not 

A  place  of  fear  and  gloom : 
We  love  to  linger  near  this  spot, 

It  is  our  parents'  tomb. 

This,  however,  was  carved  some  fifty  years  ago. 
I  fear  there  is  little  lingering  done  in  Ronaldson's 
Cemetery  nowadays,  for  the  stones  are  in  ill  re- 
pair, many  of  them  fallen.  According  to  Scharf 
and  Westcott's  history,  it  was  once  considered  the 
finest  cemetery  in  the  country  and  "  a  popular  place 
of  burial."  Just  within  the  gateway  are  two  little 
houses,  in  at  least  one  of  which  a  merry  little 
family  of  children  is  growing  up  undepressed  by 


THE  RONALDSON  CEMETERY       55 

the  strange  surroundings.  One  of  these  houses, 
according  to  Ronaldson's  cautious  plan,  was  "to 
have  a  room  provided  with  a  stove,  couch,  etc., 
into  which  persons  dying  suddenly  might  be  laid 
and  the  string  of  a  bell  put  into  their  hand,  so  that 
if  there  should  be  any  motion  of  returning  life  the 
alarm  bell  might  be  rung,  the  keeper  roused  and 
medical  help  procured." 

James  Ronaldson  was  a  Scotchman,  as  I  had 
alreach  surmised  from  an  obelisk  erected,  "Sacred 
to  the  memory  of  Scottish  Strangers,"  and  pos- 
sibly his  cautiousness  in  the  matter  of  burying 
people  alive  may  have  suggested  this  favorite 
theme  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  who  was  living  in 
Philadelphia  at  the  time  when  the  magnificent 
new  cemetery  must  have  been  the  talk  of  the 
town.  Scotchmen  have  always  been  interested  in 
cemeteries,  and  as  I  walked  those  desolate  paths 
among  the  graves  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
Stevenson's  love  of  the  old  Grayfriars  and  Calton 
Hill  burying  grounds  in  Edinburgh.  A  man  was 
busy  digging  a  grave  near  the  front  gate,  and  a 
new  oak  casket  lay  at  the  door  of  the  keeper's 
house.  It  was  strange  to  see  the  children  playing 
round  happily  in  such  scenes. 


56  WILLOW  GROVE 


WILLOW  GROVE 

SPEAKING  as  a  foreigner — every  man  is  a  foreigner 
in  Philadelphia  until  he  has  lived  here  for  three 
generations — I  should  say  that  no  place  is  more 
typical  of  the  Philadelphia  capacity  for  enjoying 
itself  in  a  thoroughly  genteel  and  innocent  way 
than  Willow  Grove.  Cynics  have  ascribed  the 
placid  conduct  of  Willow  Grove's  merrymakers  to 
the  fact  that  eighty  minutes  or  so  standing  up  in  a 
crowded  trolley  blunt  human  capacity  for  aban- 
donment and  furious  mirth.  Physiologists  say 
that  the  unprecedented  quantity  of  root  beer  and 
hard-boiled  eggs  consumed  at  the  Grove  account 
for  the  staid  bearing  of  the  celebrants.  Be  that 
how  it  may,  Willow  Grove  has  the  genial  and 
placid  flavor  of  a  French  amusement  park.  Con- 
trary to  popular  theory  the  French,  like  ourselves, 
are  comely  behaved  on  an  outing.  People  to  whom 
enjoyment  is  a  habit  do  not  turn  their  picnics  into 
an  orgy. 

It  takes  practically  as  long  to  get  to  Willow 
Grove  as  it  does  to  Atlantic  City,  but  the  sunburn 
does  not  keep  one  awake  all  night  and  asleep  at 
the  office  the  next  day.  That  rolling  watershed 
where  the  creeks  run  alternately  into  the  Delaware 
and  the  Schuylkill  is  well  hilled,  watered  and  aired. 
There  is  no  surf,  it  is  true;  but  a  superb  panorama 
of  the  white  combers  of  the  sky,  the  clouds.  And 
fields  of  plumed  and  tasseled  corn,  flickering  in 


WILLOW  GROVE 57 

the  wind,  are  no  mean  substitute  for  sand  beaches. 
Let  us  be  practical ;  no  one  can  eat  the  surf !  And 
the  most  important  matter  in  a  picnic  is  to  have 
plenty  of  food. 

Let  me  state,  in  passing,  that  the  ideal  picnic 
lunch  is  always  packed  in  a  shoebox;  there  should 
be  included  an  opener  for  root-beer  bottles,  and 
doughnuts  calculated  on  a  basis  of  three  for  each 
adult.  Inside  the  ring  of  each  doughnut  should 
be  packed  a  hard-boiled  egg.  Each  party  should 
include  one  person  (preferably  an  aunt)  of  prudent 
instincts,  to  whom  may  be  entrusted  the  money 
for  return  carfares,  Ada's  knitting  bag,  Ada's 
young  man's  wrist  watch  and  registration  card  in 
draft  Class  4A,  father's  spare  cigar  for  the  home 
voyage,  grandmother's  pneumatic  cushion  and 
Cousin  Janet's  powder-papers  and  copy  of  Spumy 
Stories.  This  prudent  person  will  form  a  head- 
quarters and  great  general  staff,  a  strong  defensive 
position  upon  which  the  maneuvers  of  the  excur- 
sion will  be  based. 

The  first  thing  that  always  strikes  me  at  Willow 
Grove  is  how  amazingly  well  dressed  everybody  is. 
The  frocks,  hats  and  ankles  of  the  young  ladies 
are  a  vision  of  rapture.  The  young  men,  too,  are 
well  dressed,  in  the  best  possible  style,  which  is,  of 
course,  the  uniform  of  Uncle  Sam.  The  last  time 
I  was  there  it  was  a  special  celebration  day  for  the 
marines.  Several  hundred  of  them  were  loping 
about  in  their  cafe-au-lait  khaki,  fine,  tall,  lean 
chaps,  with  that  curious  tautness  of  the  trousers 


58 WILLOW  GROVE 

that  makes  the  devil  dogs  look  stiff-kneed. 
Bronzed,  handsome  fellows,  with  the  characteristic 
tilt  of  the  Stetson  that  must  flutter  the  hearts  of 
French  flappers.  And  as  for  the  girls,  if  Willow 
Grove  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  is  a  fair  cross- 
section  of  Philadelphia  pulchritude,  I  will  match  it 
against  anything  any  other  city  can  show. 

Willow  Grove,  of  course,  is  famous  for  its  music, 
and  at  dusk  the  Marine  Band  was  to  play  in  the 
pavilion.  That  open-air  auditorium,  under  the 
tremulous  ceiling  of  tall  maples  and  willows  and 
sycamores,  with  the  green  and  silver  shimmer 
of  the  darkening  lake  at  one  side,  is  a  cheerful 
place  to  sit  and  meditate.  I  had  a  volume  of 
Thoreau  with  me,  and  began  to  read  it,  but  he 
kept  on  harping  upon  the  blisses  of  solitude  which 
annoyed  me  when  I  was  enjoying  the  mirths  and 
moods  of  the  crowd.  Nowhere  will  you  find  a 
happier,  more  sane  and  contented  and  typically 
American  crowd  than  at  Willow  Grove.  Perhaps 
in  wartime  we  take  our  pleasures  a  little  more 
soberly  than  of  old.  Yet  there  seemed  no  shadow 
of  sadness  or  misgiving  on  all  those  happy  faces, 
and  it  was  a  good  sight  to  see  tall  marines  romping 
through  the  "Crazy  Village"  arm  in  arm  with 
bright-eyed  girls.  Those  boys  in  the  coffee-and- 
milk  uniform  will  see  crazier  villages  than  that  in 
Champagne  and  Picardy. 

The  last  arrows  of  sunlight  were  still  quivering 
among  the  upmost  leaves  when  the  Marine  Band 
began  to  play,  and  the  great  crowd  gathered  under 


WILLOW  GROVE  59 

the  trees  was  generous  with  affectionate  enthu- 
siasm. And  then,  at  a  bugle  call,  the  rest  of  the 
sea-soldiers  charged  shouting  down  the  dusky 
aisles,  climbed  the  platform,  and  sang  their  war 
songs  with  fine  pride  and  spirit.  "America,  Here's 
My  Boy  " ;  "It's  a  Long,  Long  Way  to  Berlin,  But 
We'll  Get  there,  by  Heck";  "Goodby,  Broadway: 
Hello,  France"  and  "There's  a  Long,  Long,  Trail" 
were  the  favorites.  And  then  came  the  one  song 
that  of  all  others  has  permeated  American  fiber 
during  the  last  year — "Over  There."  There  is 
something  of  simple  gallantry  and  pathos  in  it  that 
I  find  genuinely  moving.  The  clear,  merry,  auda- 
cious male  voices  made  me  think  of  their  brothers 
in  France  who  were,  even  at  that  very  moment, 
undergoing  such  fiery  and  unspeakable  trial.  The 
great  gathering  under  the  trees  seemed  to  feel 
something  of  this,  too;  there  was  a  caught  breath 
and  a  quiver  of  secret  pain  on  every  bench.  "  Over 
There,"  unassuming  ditty  as  it  is,  has  caught  the 
spirit  of  our  crusade  with  inspiration  and  truth. 
It  is  the  informal  anthem  of  our  great  and  dedi- 
cated resolve. 

As  we  walked  back  toward  the  station  the  roll- 
ing loops  and  webbed  framework  of  the  scenic 
railway  were  silhouetted  black  against  a  western 
sky  which  was  peacock  blue  with  a  quiver  of  green- 
ish crystal  still  eddying  in  it.  The  bullfrogs  were 
drumming  in  the  little  ponds  enameled  with  green 
scum.  And  from  the  train  window,  as  we  rattled 
down  that  airy  valley,  we  could  see  the  Grove's 

5 


60  CHESTNUT  ST.  FROM  A  FIRE  ESCAPE 

spangles  and  festoons  of  light.  Philadelphia  may 
take  her  amusements  placidly,  but  she  knows  how 
to  enjoy  them. 


CHESTNUT  STREET  FROM  A  FIRE 
ESCAPE 

JUST  outside  our  office  window  is  a  fire-escape 
with  a  little  iron  balcony.  On  warm  days,  when 
the  tall  windows  are  wide  open,  that  rather  slender 
platform  is  our  favorite  vantage  ground  for  watch- 
ing Chestnut  street.  We  have  often  thought  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  a  pallet  spread  out 
there,  so  that  we  could  do  our  work  in  that  reclin- 
ing posture  that  is  so  inspiring. 

But  we  can  tell  a  good  deal  of  what  is  going  on 
along  Chestnut  street  without  leaving  our  desk. 
Chestnut  street  sings  a  music  of  its  own.  Its 
genial  human  symphony  could  never  be  mistaken 
for  that  of  any  other  highway.  The  various 
strands  of  sound  that  compose  its  harmony  grad- 
ually sink  into  our  mind  without  our  paying  con- 
scious heed  to  them.  For  instance,  there  is  the 
light  sliding  swish  of  the  trolley  poles  along  the 
wire,  accompanied  by  the  deep  rocking  rumble  of 
the  car,  and  the  crash  as  it  pounds  over  the  cross- 
tracks  at  Sixth  street.  There  is  the  clear  mellow 
clang  of  the  trolley  gongs,  the  musical  trill  of  fast 
wagon  wheels  running  along  the  trolley  rails,  and 
the  rattle  of  hoofs  on  the  cobbled  strip  between 
the  metals.  Particularly  easy  to  identify  is  the 


CHESTNUT  ST.  FROM  A  FIRE  ESCAPE  61 

sound  every  citizen  knows,  the  rasping,  sliding 
clatter  of  a  wagon  turning  off  the  car  track  so  that 
a  trolley  can  pass  it.  The  front  wheels  have  left 
the  track,  but  the  back  pair  are  scraping  along 
against  the  setts  before  mounting  over  the  rim. 

Every  street  has  its  own  distinctive  noises  and 
the  attentive  ear  accustoms  itself  to  them  until 
they  become  almost  a  part  of  the  day's  enjoy- 
ment. The  deep-toned  bell  of  Independence  Hall 
bronzing  the  hours  is  part  of  our  harmony  here, 
and  no  less  familiar  is  the  vigorous  tap-tap  of 
Blind  Al's  stick.  Al  is  the  well-known  news- 
dealer at  the  corner  of  Chestnut  and  Fifth.  Sev- 
eral times  a  day  he  passes  along  under  our  win- 
dows, and  the  tinkle  of  his  staff  is  a  well-known 
and  pleasant  note  in  our  ears.  We  like  to  imagine, 
too,  that  we  can  recognize  the  peculiarly  soft  and 
easy-going  rumble  of  a  wagon  of  watermelons. 

But  what  we  started  to  talk  about  was  the  bal- 
cony, from  which  we  can  get  a  long  view  of  Chest- 
nut street  all  the  way  from  Broad  street  almost  to 
the  river.  It  is  a  pleasant  prospect.  There  is 
something  very  individual  about  Chestnut  street. 
It  could  not  possibly  be  in  New  York.  The  solid, 
placid  dignity  of  most  of  the  buildings,  the  absence 
of  skyscrapers,  the  plain  stone  fronts  with  the 
arched  windows  of  the  sixties,  all  these  bespeak 
a  city  where  it  is  still  a  little  bit  bad  form  for  a 
building  to  be  too  garishly  new.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  I  do  not  remember  in  New  York  any  such 
criss-cross  of  wires  above  the  streets.  Along  Chest- 


62  CHESTNUT  ST.  FROM  A  FIRE  ESCAPE 

nut  street  they  run  at  will  from  roof  to  roof  over 
the  way. 

Gazing  from  our  little  balcony  the  eye  travels 
down  along  the  uneven  profile  of  the  northern 
flank  of  Chestnut  street.  From  the  Wanamaker 
wireless  past  the  pale,  graceful  minaret  of  the 
Federal  Reserve  Bank,  the  skyline  drops  down  to 
the  Federal  Building  which,  standing  back  from 
the  street,  leaves  a  gap  in  the  view.  Then  the 
slant  of  roofs  draws  the  eye  upward  again,  over 
the  cluster  of  little  conical  spires  on  Green's  Hotel 
(like  a  French  chateau)  to  the  sharp  ridges  and 
heavy  pyramid  roof  of  the  Merchants'  Union 
Trust  Company.  This,  with  its  two  attendant 
banks  on  either  side,  is  undoubtedly  the  most  ex- 
traordinary architectural  curiosity  Chestnut  street 
can  boast.  The  fagade  with  its  appalling  quirks 
and  twists  of  stone  and  iron  grillwork,  its  sculp- 
tured Huns  and  Medusa  faces,  is  something  to  con- 
template with  alarm. 

After  reaching  Seventh  street,  Chestnut  be- 
comes less  adventurous.  Perhaps  awed  by  the 
simple  and  stately  beauty  of  Independence  Hall 
and  its  neighbors,  it  restrains  itself  from  any  fur- 
ther originality  until  Fourth  street,  where  the  or- 
nate Gothic  of  the  Provident  claims  the  eye.  From 
our  balcony  we  can  see  only  a  part  of  Independ- 
ence Hall,  but  we  look  down  on  the  faded  elms 
along  the  pavement  in  front  and  the  long  line  of 
iron  posts  beloved  of  small  boys  for  leapfrog.  Then 
the  eye  climbs  to  the  tall  and  graceful  staff  above 


CHESTNUT  ST.  FROM  A  FIRE  ESCAPE  63 

the  Drexel  Building,  where  the  flag  ripples  cleanly 
against  the  blue.  And  our  view  is  bounded,  far 
away  to  the  east,  by  the  massive  tower  of  the 
Victor  factory  in  Camden. 

It  is  great  fun  to  watch  Chestnut  street  from  the 
little  balcony.  On  hot  days,  when  the  white  sun- 
light fills  the  street  with  a  dazzle  of  brightness  and 
bands  of  dark  shadow,  it  is  amusing  to  see  how  all 
pedestrians  keep  to  the  shady  southern  pavements. 
When  a  driving  shower  comes  up  and  the  slants 
and  rods  of  rain  lash  against  the  dingy  brownstone 
fronts,  one  may  look  out  and  see  passers  by  hud- 
dled under  the  awnings  and  the  mounted  police- 
men's horses  sleek  as  satin  in  the  wet.  The  pave- 
ment under  our  balcony  is  notable  for  its  slipperi- 
ness :  it  has  been  chipped  into  ribs  by  stonemasons 
to  make  it  less  so.  In  the  rain  it  shines  like  a 
mirror.  And  our  corner  has  its  excitements,  too. 
Once  every  few  months  the  gas  mains  take  it  into 
their  pipes  to  explode  and  toss  manholes  and  pav- 
ing sixty  feet  in  air. 

The  part  of  Chestnut  street  that  is  surveyed  by 
our  balcony  is  a  delightful  highway:  friendly, 
pleasantly  dignified,  with  just  a  touch  of  old- 
fashioned  manners  and  homeliness.  It  is  rather 
akin  to  a  London  street.  And  best  of  all,  almost 
underneath  our  balcony  is  a  little  lunch  room  where 
you  can  get  custard  ice  cream  with  honey  poured 
over  it,  and  we  think  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world. 


THE  PARKWAY,  HENRY  FORD  AND 
BILLY  THE  BEAN  MAN 

I  WALKED  down  the  Parkway  yesterday  morning 
visualizing  that  splendid  emptiness  of  sunshine  as 
it  will  appear  five  or  ten  years  hence,  lined  with  art 
galleries,  museums  and  libraries,  shaded  with 
growing  trees,  leading  from  the  majestic  pinnacle 
of  the  City  Hall  to  the  finest  public  estate  in 
America.  It  is  a  long  way  from  those  open  fields 
of  splintered  brick  and  gravel  pits,  where  work- 
men are  now  warming  their  hands  over  bonfires, 
to  the  Peace  Conference  in  Paris.  But  the  hope 
occurred  to  me  that  the  League  of  Nations  will  not 
tie  itself  down  too  closely  to  the  spot  where  its 
archives  are  kept.  It  will  be  a  fine  thing  if  the 
annual  meetings  of  the  League  can  be  held  in  dif- 
ferent cities  all  over  the  world,  visiting  the  nations 
in  turn.  This  process  would  do  much  to  educate 
public  sentiment  to  the  reality  and  importance  of 
our  new  international  commission.  And  in  the 
course  of  time  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  league 
might  meet  in  Philadelphia,  where,  in  a  sense,  it 
was  founded.  The  world  is  rich  in  lovely  cities — 
Rio,  Athens,  Edinburgh,  Rome,  Tokio  and  the 
rest.  But  the  Philadelphia  of  the  future,  as  some 
citizens  have  dreamed  it,  will  be  able  to  hold  up 
its  head  with  the  greatest.  I  like  to  think  of  a 
Philadelphia  in  which  the  lower  Schuylkill  would 


THE   PARKWAY   AND   BILLY          65 

be  something  more  than  a  canal  of  oily  ooze;  in 
which  the  wonderful  Dutch  meadows  of  the  Neck 
would  be  reclaimed  into  one  of  the  world's  loveliest 
riverside  parks,  and  in  which  the  Parkway  will 
stretch  its  airy  vista  from  the  heart  of  the  city, 
between  stately  buildings  of  public  profit,  out  to 
the  sparkling  waters  of  Fairmount. 

The  city  shows  a  curiously  assorted  silhouette  as 
one  walks  down  the  Parkway  from  Twenty-fifth 
street.  There  is  the  plain  dark  dome  of  the 
Cathedral,  with  its  golden  cross  flashing  in  the 
sun  and  the  tall  cocoa-colored  pillars.  No  one 
would  guess  from  the  drab  exterior  the  splendor 
of  color  and  fragrance  within.  There  is,  of  course, 
the  outline  of  William  Penn  on  his  windy  vantage, 
the  long,  dingy  line  of  Broad  Street  Station's  train- 
shed  and  the  tall  but  unpretentious  building  of  the 
Bell  Telephone  Company,  where  the  flag  swims 
against  the  sky  on  its  slender  staff.  As  one  walks 
on,  past  the  Medico-Chirurgical  Hospital,  with  its 
memorable  inscription  (Think  not  the  beautiful  do- 
ings of  thy  soul  shall  perish  unremembered;  they 
abide  with  thee  forever) ,  the  thin  white  spire  of  the 
Arch  Street  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  and 
the  monstrous  oddity  of  the  Masonic  Temple 
spring  into  view.  In  an  optimistic  mood,  under  a 
riot  of  sunlight  and  a  radiant  sky,  one  is  tempted 
to  claim  a  certain  beauty  for  this  incongruous 
panorama.  Yet  if  there  is  beauty  no  one  can  claim 
a  premeditated  scheme  for  it.  Granite,  marble, 
brick  and  chocolate  stone  jostle  one  another.  Let 


66          THE  PARKWAY  AND   BILLY 

us  hope  that  the  excellent  ruthlessness  with  which 
the  paths  of  the  Parkway  have  been  made  straight 
will  be  equaled  by  diligent  harmony  in  the  new 
structures  to  come. 

The  great  churches  of  the  Roman  communion 
are  always  an  inspiration  to  visit.  At  almost  all 
hours  of  the  day  or  night  you  will  find  worshipers 
slipping  quietly  in  and  out,  generally  of  the  hum- 
blest classes.  I  slipped  into  the  Cathedral  for  a 
few  minutes  and  sat  there  watching  the  shimmer 
of  color  and  blended  shadows  as  the  vivid  sun- 
light streamed  through  the  semicircular  windows 
above  the  nave.  The  body  of  the  church  is  steeped 
in  that  soft  dusk  described  once  for  all  as  "a  dim 
religious  light,"  but  the  great  cream-colored  pillars 
with  their  heavy  gold  ornaments  lift  the  eyes  up- 
ward to  the  arched  ceiling  with  its  small  tablets 
of  blue  and  shining  knots  of  gold.  In  the  dome 
hung  a  faint  lilac  haze  of  intermingled  gentle  hues, 
sifting  through  the  ring  of  stained  windows.  The 
eastern  window  over  the  high  altar  shows  one 
brilliant  note  of  rich  blue  in  the  folds  of  the 
Madonna's  gown.  Over  the  gleaming  terrace  of 
white  marble  steps  hangs  a  great  golden  lamp  with 
a  small  ruby  spark  glowing  through  the  twilight. 
Below  these  steps  a  plainly  dressed  little  man 
knelt  in  prayer  all  the  time  I  was  in  the  church. 
The  air  was  faintly  fragrant  with  incense,  having 
almost  the  aroma  of  burning  cedar  wood.  A  con- 
stant patter  of  hushed  footfalls  on  the  marble  floor 
was  due  to  the  entrance  and  exit  of  stealthy  wor- 


THE  PARKWAY  AND  BILLY          67 

shipers  coming  in  for  a  few  minutes  of  silence  in  the 
noon  recess. 

Just  around  the  corner  from  the  Cathedral  one 
looks  across  the  broad  playground  of  the  Friends' 
Select  School  on  to  the  bright,  cheerful  face  of 
Race  street.  In  that  1600  block  Race  is  a  typical 
Philadelphia  street  of  the  old  sort — plain  brick 
houses  with  slanted  roofs  and  dormer  windows, 
white  and  green  shutters  and  scoured  marble  steps. 
I  was  surprised  to  notice  the  number  of  signs  dis- 
played calling  attention  to  "Apartments,"  "Va- 
cancies" and  "Furnished  Rooms."  Certainly  I 
can  imagine  no  pleasanter  place  to  lodge,  with  the 
sunny  windows  looking  over  the  school  ground  to 
the  soaring  figure  of  Penn  and  the  high  cliffs  be- 
hind him.  Romance  seems  to  linger  along  that 
sun-warmed  brick  pavement,  and  I  peered  curi- 
ously at  the  windows  so  discreetly  curtained  with 
lace  and  muslin,  wondering  what  quaint  tales  the 
landladies  of  Race  street  might  have  to  impart  if 
one  could  muster  up  courage  enough  to  question 
them.  In  the  news  stand  and  cigar  store  at  the 
corner  of  Sixteenth  I  made  a  notable  discovery — a 
copy  of  Henry  Ford's  new  Sunday  school  paper, 
the  Dearborn  Independent — the  Ford  Inter- 
national Weekly,  he  proudly  subtitles  it.  I  bought 
a  copy  and  took  it  to  lunch  with  me.  I  cannot  say 
it  left  me  much  richer;  nor,  I  fear,  will  it  leave 
Henry  that  way.  Much  can  be  forgiven  Henry  for 
the  honest  simplicity  of  his  soul,  but  the  lad  who's 
palming  off  those  editorial  page  mottoes  on  him, 


68          THE  PARKWAY  AND   BILLY 

in  black-face  type,  ought  to  face  a  firing  squad. 
This  is  the  way  they  run: 

"Where  buy  we  sleep?11  inquired  the  royal  shirk; 
The  sweetest  rest  on  earth  is  bought  with  work. 

And  this: 

The  truth  of  equal  opportunity  is  this: 

Life,  death;  love,  hope  and  strife,  no  man  may  miss. 

Or  again: 

When  profit  is  won  at  the  cost  of  a  principle, 
The  winner  has  lost — this  law  is  invincible. 

Henry,  Henry — didn't  that  cruise  on  the  Oskar 
teach  you  anything?  It  seems  too  bad  that  Henry 
should  go  to  the  expense  of  founding  a  new 
humorous  journal  when  Life  is  doing  so  well. 

Coming  back  along  Arch  street  I  fell  in  with 
Billy  the  Bean  Man.  You  may  have  seen  Billy  sell- 
ing necklaces  of  white  and  scarlet  beans  on  Broad 
street,  clad  in  his  well-known  sombrero,  magenta 
shirt  and  canvas  trousers.  Billy  is  a  first-class  med- 
icine man,  and  he  hits  this  town  about  once  a  year. 
He  wore  the  cleanest  shave  I  ever  saw,  but  his  dark 
William  J.  Bryan  eyes  were  mournful.  He  tried 
to  lure  me  into  buying  a  necklace  by  showing  me 
how  you  can  walk  on  the  beans  without  breaking 
them.  "Picked  and  strung  by  the  aboriginal  In- 
dians of  the  Staked  Plain,"  he  assured  me;  "and 
brought  by  me  to  this  home  of  eastern  culture.  A 
sovereign  remedy  for  seasickness  and  gout." 

"Billy,"  I  said,  "you  amaze  me.     Last  year 


WILDEY  STREET 69 

those  same  necklaces  were  curing  mumps  and 
metaphysical  error." 

He  looked  at  me  keenly.  "Oh,  it's  you,  is  it? 
Say,  this  is  a  bum  town.  Business  is  rotten.  I'm 
going  on  to  Washington  tomorrow." 

"Sell  one  to  Senator  Sherman,"  I  said;  and 
passing  by  the  allurements  of  Dumont's  matinee — 
"The  Devil  in  Jersey:  He  Terrified  Woodbury, 
but  He  Couldn't  Scare  Us" — I  gained  the  safety 
of  the  office. 


WILDEY  STREET 

I  SET  out  for  a  stroll  with  the  Mountaineer,  who 
knows  more  about  Philadelphia  than  any  one  I 
ever  heard  of.  He  is  long  and  lean  and  has  a 
flashing  eye;  his  swinging  easy  stride  betrays  the 
blood  of  southern  highlands.  He  tracks  down  dis- 
tant streets  and  leafy  glimpses  with  all  the  grim 
passion  of  a  Kentucky  scout  on  the  trail  of  a  lynx 
or  some  other  varmint.  No  old  house,  no  pictur- 
uresque  corner  or  elbow  alley  escapes  his  penetrant 
gaze.  He  has  secret  trails  and  caches  scattered 
through  the  great  forests  of  Philadelphia,  known  to 
none  but  himself.  With  such  a  woodsman  for 
guide  good  hunting  was  a  matter  of  course. 

The  first  game  we  bagged  was  a  tattooing  studio 
at  814  Summer  street.  Let  no  one  say  that  war 
means  a  decline  of  the  fine  arts,  for  to  judge  by  the 
photographs  in  the  window  there  are  many  who 
pine  to  have  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  the  American 


70 WILDEY  STREET 

eagle  and  the  shield  of  the  food  administration 
frescoed  on  their  broad  chests.  Professor  Al  E. 
Walters,  the  craftsman,  proclaims  himself  artistic 
and  reliable  in  this  form  of  embroidery  and  the 
sitter  has  "1500  up-to-date  designs  to  choose 
from."  The  Mountaineer  and  I  peered  through 
the  window  and  were  interested  to  see  the  pro- 
fessor's array  of  tools  laid  out  on  his  operating 
table. 

Passing  by  an  imposing  bust  of  Homer,  which 
we  found  in  front  of  a  junk  shop  at  528  Noble 
street,  the  Mountaineer  led  me  to  see  the  old  Ho- 
boes' Union  headquarters  at  Fifth  and  Button- 
wood  streets.  The  war  may  have  given  tattooing 
a  fillip,  but  it  seems  that  it  has  been  the  decline 
and  fall  of  philosophic  hoboism,  for  the  vagrants' 
clubhouse  is  dusty  and  void,  now  used  as  some  sort 
of  a  warehouse.  Work  or  fight  and  high  wages 
have  done  for  romantic  loafing.  The  Mountaineer 
pointed  out  to  me  the  kitchen  in  which  the  boes 
held  their  evening  symposia  over  a  kettle  of  hot 
stew.  The  house  was  donated  through  the  munifi- 
cence of  J.  Eads  Howe,  the  famous  millionaire 
hobo,  and  the  Mountaineer  admitted  that  he  had 
spent  many  an  entertaining  evening  there  discuss- 
ing matters  of  intellectual  importance.  "  How  did 
you  get  the  entree  to  such  an  exclusive  circle?" 
I  asked  enviously.  "  I  was  a  member  of  the  union," 
he  said,  with  just  the  least  touch  of  vainglory. 

The  Mountaineer  led  me  north  on  Fourth  street 
to  where  Wildey  street  begins  its  zigzag  career.  We 


71 


found  that  the  strip  between  Germantown  avenue 
and  Front  street  was  buzzing  with  preparations  for 
a  "block  party"  in  honor  and  benefit  of  its  boys  in 
service.  All  down  the  gay  little  vista  flags  were 
hanging  out,  Chinese  lanterns  had  been  strung  on 
wires  across  the  street,  shop  windows  were  criss- 
crossed with  red,  white  and  blue  streamers  and 
booths  were  going  up  on  the  pavement  swathed 
in  tricolored  tissue  paper.  At  one  end  of  the  block 
the  curbstones  had  been  whitewashed.  We 
stopped  to  ask  an  elderly  lady  when  the  fun  would 
begin. 

"Tonight  and  tomorrow  night,"  she  said.  (It 
was  then  Friday  afternoon.)  "Our  boys  are  fight- 
ing for  us  and  we  want  to  do  everything  We  can  to 
help.  I  was  at  my  summer  residence  when  I  heard 
about  this  party,  and  I  came  back  at  once.  We've 
got  to  help  as  best  we  can." 

The  sky  was  clouding  over  and  the  Mountaineer 
and  I  expressed  the  hope  that  rain  wouldn't  spoil 
the  festivity. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't  seem  as 
though  the  Lord  would  send  rain  when  we're 
working  for  a  good  cause.  We've  hired  a  string 
band  for  the  two  nights — that's  $60 — and  we're 
going  to  have  dancing  in  the  street.  You'd  better 
come  around.  It's  going  to  be  a  great  time." 

Everybody  in  the  street  was  busy  with  prepara- 
tions for  the  jollification,  and  I  was  deeply  touched 
by  this  little  community's  expression  of  gratitude, 
and  confidence  in  its  boys  who  are  fighting.  That 


72  WILDEY  STREET 

is  the  real  "stuff  of  triumph"  of  which  the  Presi- 
dent spoke.  And  one  has  only  to  pass  along 
Wildey  street  to  see  that  it  is  fine  old  native  stock. 
It  is  an  ail-American  street,  of  pure  native  breed, 
holding  out  stiffly  and  cleanly  against  the  invasion 
of  foreign  population.  The  narrow  side  alleys  look 
back  into  patches  of  vivid  green;  there  are  flower 
boxes  and  vines,  and  the  pavements  and  marble 
steps  are  scrubbed  as  clean  as  water  and  soap  will 
make  them.  A  little  further  along  we  found  a 
tavern  dispensing  Wildey  street's  favorite  drink — 
pop  and  porter — and  we  halted  to  drink  health  to 
the  block  party. 

Beyond  Shackamaxon  street  we  struck  into  the 
unique  silence  and  quiet  cleanliness  of  "Fish- 
town."  The  quietness  of  those  streets  of  quaint 
little  houses  is  remarkable :  in  the  golden  flood  of  a 
warm  afternoon  they  lay  with  hardly  an  echo  to 
break  the  stillness.  The  prevailing  color  scheme 
is  green  and  red:  many  of  the  houses  are  neat 
cottages  built  of  wood;  others  are  the  old  parti- 
colored brick  that  comes  down  from  ancient  days. 
Almost  every  house  has  its  little  garden,  often 
outlined  with  whitened  shells.  It  seems  like  a 
New  England  fishing  village  in  the  heart  of  the 
city.  An  occasional  huckster's  wagon  rumbles 
smoothly  along  the  asphalt  paving;  an  occasional 
tinkle  of  a  piano  in  some  cool,  darkened  parlor. 
That  is  all.  I  can  imagine  no  haunt  of  ancient 
peace  more  drowsy  with  stillness  and  the  treble 
chirp  of  birds  than  the  tangled  and  overgrown 


WILDEY  STREET 73 

cemetery  at  Thompson  street  and  Columbia 
avenue,  in  the  hush  of  a  hot  summer  siesta. 

There  is  a  note  of  grace  and  comeliness  in 
Wildey  street  life  that  one  attributes  to  the  good 
native  stock  of  the  inhabitants.  The  children  are 
clean  and  rounded  and  goodly.  The  little  girls 
have  plump  calves  and  crisp  gingham  dresses  and 
blue  eyes;  they  sit  in  their  little  gardens  playing 
with  paper  dolls.  Their  brothers,  with  the  mis- 
chief and  errant  humor  that  one  expects  of  small 
boys,  garnish  walls  and  hoardings  with  whimsical 
legends  scrawled  in  chalk.  The  old  family  tooth- 
brush that  laid  on  the  floor  was  one  such  that 
amused  me.  Another  was  a  regrettable  allegation 
that  a  (presumably  absent)  playmate  was  afflicted 
with  "maines."  The  Mountaineer  and  I,  after 
studying  the  context,  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  scourge  hinted  at  was  " mange!" 

Most  thrilling  of  all,  Wildey  street  becomes 
more  and  more  maritime.  Over  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  one  sees  the  masts  of  ships — always  a  sight 
to  make  the  eager  heart  leap  up.  Cramps'  ship- 
yard is  at  hand,  and  many  of  the  front  windows 
display  the  starred  service  cards  of  the  United 
States  Shipping  Board.  On  Richmond  street, 
parallel  to  Wildey,  are  ship  chandlers'  stores,  with 
windows  full  of  brass  pulleys  and  chocks  and 
cleats,  coils  of  rope  and  port  and  starboard  lan- 
terns. We  hurried  down  toward  the  waterfront 
and  peeped  through  the  high  board  fence  to  see  a 
steamer  in  drydock  for  a  coat  of  camouflage. 


74 WILDEY  STREET 

Great  stripes  of  black  and  blue  and  white  were 
being  laid  along  her  hull. 

Penn  Treaty  Park,  at  the  foot  of  Columbia 
avenue,  would  deserve  an  essay  of  its  own.  Here, 
under  a  pavilion,  the  Mountaineer  and  I  sat  sur- 
rounded by  the  intoxicating  presence  of  water  and 
boats,  watched  the  police  patrol  launches  being 
overhauled,  watched  a  little  schooner  loading 
lumber  (I  couldn't  read  her  name,  but  she  came 
from  Hampton,  Va.),  watched  the  profile  of  Cam- 
den  shining  dimly  through  the  rain.  For  a  very 
smart  rainstorm  had  come  up  and  we  sat  and  felt 
a  pang  of  sympathy  for  the  good  people  of  Wildey 
street,  whose  Chinese  lanterns  and  tricolored 
tissue  paper  would  be  ruined  by  the  wet.  We 
watched  the  crew  of  the  tug  Baltic  getting  ready 
for  supper  and  dinghies  nosing  the  piers  and  bob- 
bling  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  water,  and  we 
saw  how  the  gleam  of  rain  and  mist  on  the  roofs 
of  Camden  looked  exactly  like  a  fall  of  snow.  Fish- 
town  uses  Penn  Treaty  Park  as  a  place  for  loung- 
ing and  smoking  under  the  peeling  sycamores  and 
watching  the  panorama  of  the  river. 

P.  S.  I  thought  a  great  deal  about  the  block 
party  on  Wildey  street  that  night  and  hoped  that 
the  rain  would  not  have  spoilt  it.  So  the  next 
morning  I  got  off  the  8:13  at  Columbia  avenue  and 
walked  down  past  that  deep  violin  note  of  the 
Columbia  avenue  sawmills  to  see  how  things  were 
going.  I  found  the  same  old  lady  on  the  sidewalk, 


HOG  ISLAND  75 


hopefully  renewing  her  red,  white  and  blue  tissue, 
and  I  noticed  that  all  the  children  were  wearing 
fantastic  patriotic  caps  made  of  shirred  and  fluted 
paper.  "Well,"  I  said,  "how  did  things  go?" 
"Oh,"  she  replied,  "the  rain  hurt  things  a  bit,  but 
tonight's  going  to  be  the  big  night.  It's  going  to 
bo  a  great  time:  you'd  better  come  around." 
The  stuff  of  triumph! 


HOG  ISLAND 

MY  ONLY  regret  was  that  my  friend  John  Fitz- 
gerald didn't  take  Rudyard  Kipling  or  William 
McFee  or  Philip  Gibbs  down  to  Hog  Island,  in- 
stead of  a  humble  traveler  whose  hand  can  never  do 
justice  to  that  marvelous  epic  of  human  achieve- 
ment. It  would  be  worth  Mr.  Kipling's  while  to 
cross  the  Atlantic  just  to  see  the  Island. 

Far  across  the  low-lying  meadows  the  great 
fringe  of  derricks  rises  against  the  sky.  Along  a 
beautiful  solid  highway,  over  the  Penrose  Ferry 
drawbridge  and  past  the  crumbled  ramparts  of 
old  Fort  Mifflin,  motors  and  trolley  cars  now  go 
flashing  down  to  the  huge  shipyard,  where  eigh- 
teen months  ago  a  truck  struggled  along  a  miry 
country  road  carrying  enough  lumber  to  put  up  a 
timekeeper's  shack.  The  story  of  that  great  drama 
of  patient  courage  and  effort  lies  behind  and  under- 
neath all  one  sees  at  Hog  Island.  As  we  walked 
along  the  marvelous  stretch  of  fifty  shipways,  each 
carrying  a  vessel  in  course  of  construction,  and  as 
6 


76  HOG  ISLAND 


Fitz  and  I  stood  on  the  bridge  of  the  Saluda,  one 
of  the  eleven  steamers  now  getting  their  finishing 
touches  at  the  seven  huge  piers,  one  had  a  vision 
of  the  Island  as  it  was  during  that  first  winter. 
Engineers  and  laborers  wrestled  with  frozen  swamp 
and  blizzard  snows.  Workmen  were  brought  from 
Philadelphia  day  by  day,  roped  in  like  sardines  in 
open  trucks,  arriving  numbed  to  the  bone.  Per- 
haps some  day  there  will  come  some  poet  great 
enough  to  tell  the  drama  of  Hog  Island  as  it  ought 
to  be  told.  The  men  who  gritted  their  teeth  and 
put  it  through  will  never  tell.  They  are  of  the  old 
stalwart  breed  that  works  with  its  hands.  As  they 
talk  you  can  divine  something  of  what  they  en- 
dured. 

I  don't  believe  there  is  a  more  triumphant  place 
on  earth  than  Hog  Island  these  days.  Ships  are 
the  most  expressive  creatures  of  men's  hands,  and 
as  I  stood  with  Fitz  on  the  bridge  of  the  Saluda 
and  looked  out  through  a  driving  rain  on  the 
comely  gray  hulls  of  those  7500-ton  cargo  carriers, 
it  was  hard  to  resist  the  thought  that  each  of  them 
had  a  soul  of  her  own  and  was  partaking  in  the 
general  exultation.  Eight  ships  now  going  about 
their  business  on  the  world's  waters,  eleven  at  the 
outfitting  piers  getting  ready  to  smell  blue  water, 
and  fifty  on  the  ways — the  Island  is  launching  one 
every  Saturday — that  is  the  record.  Smoke  was 
drifting  from  the  funnels  of  several,  whose  turbine 
engines  were  getting  their  tuning  up. 

These  thousand-foot  piers,  each  of  which  can 


HOG  ISLAND  77 


accommodate  four  8000-ton  ships  at  a  time,  will 
one  day  make  Philadelphia  one  of  the  world's 
greatest  ports.  And  the  thought  that  every  lover 
of  seafaring  will  bring  away  with  him  is  that  these 
fabricated  ships,  built  according  to  a  set  plan  with 
interchangeable  parts,  are  beautiful  ships.  Hum- 
ble cargo  carriers,  but  to  an  untutored  eye  they 
have  much  of  the  loveliness  of  form  of  some  of  the 
stateliest  liners.  Looking  into  the  newly  finished 
chartroom,  wheelroom  and  other  deckhouses  of 
the  Saluda,  I  envied  her  future  master. 

We  climbed  down  steep  steel  ladders  to  look  at 
the  engine  and  boiler  rooms.  No  grimy  stokehold 
on  these  ships — they  are  oil-burners.  One  of  the 
furnaces  was  lit,  and  through  the  half-open  door 
one  could  see  a  roaring  glow  of  flame.  In  the  engine 
room  quiet  and  skillful  workmen  were  doing  mys- 
terious things  to  a  huge  turbine.  The  shining  cyl- 
inders and  huge  pistons  of  the  old  reciprocating 
engine  were  missing;  in  their  place  a  bewildering 
complex  of  wheels  and  valves  and  asbestos  covered 
piping.  Looking  down  from  above  the  engine 
room  was  a  vast  echoing  cavern,  spotted  with 
orange  electric  bulbs,  with  the  occasional  groan 
and  humming  of  electric  motors  and  men  in  over- 
alls moving  quietly  about  their  tasks.  The  quiet- 
ness of  Hog  Island  is  one  of  its  curiously  impressive 
features.  It  is  not  a  wilderness  of  roaring,  frenzied 
machinery.  Everything  moves  with  efficient 
docility.  Even  the  riveting  guns  that  echo  inside 
the  hollow  caves  of  unfinished  hulls  are  hardly  as 


78  HOG  ISLAND 


clamorous  as  I  had  expected.  In  the  plate  and 
angle  shops  vast  traveling  cranes  swing  overhead 
with  the  ease  and  silence  of  huge  dark  birds. 
Acetylene  torches,  blowing  dainty  little  wisps  of 
blue-gold  flame,  slice  through  half -inch  steel  plates 
while  the  dissolving  metal  dribbles  down  in  yellow 
bubbles  and  streamers  and  a  shower  of  brilliant 
sparks  flies  off  gently  and  quietly.  Great  wedges 
descend  on  flat  plates  and  bend  them  into  right 
angles  with  only  a  soft  crunch. 

Scaling  tall  scaffolds  we  clambered  over  one  of 
the  half  finished  hulls,  a  naked  shell  of  steel  echo- 
ing with  sudden  fierce  outbursts  of  riveting.  As  it 
was  raining  the  out-of-door  riveting  had  ceased, 
as  whenever  there  is  danger  of  water  getting  under 
the  flange  of  the  rivet  there  is  a  liability  of  the 
work  not  being  quite  watertight.  But  between 
decks  some  of  the  men  were  hard  at  work.  Across 
the  deck  red-hot  rivets  came  flying  through  the  air 
from  the  brazier;  these  were  deftly  caught  in  a 
metal  cone  by  the  passer.  With  a  long  pair  of 
tongs  he  inserts  the  glowing  finger  of  metal  in  the 
hole;  the  backer-up  holds  it  rigid  with  a  com- 
pressed-air hammer,  while  the  riveter,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  plates,  mushrooms  down  the  shining 
stalk  of  the  rivet  with  his  air  gun.  It  is  fascinating 
to  watch  the  end  of  the  rivet  flattening  under  the 
chattering  blows  of  the  gun.  An  expert  riveting 
team  can  drive  several  hundred  rivets  a  day,  and 
when  paid  on  piecework  the  team  gets  six  and  one- 
half  cents  per  rivet.  This  is  divided  among  the 


HOG  ISLAND  79 


team,  usually  in  the  proportion  of  40  per  cent  to 
the  riveter,  30  per  cent  to  the  backer-up  and  15 
per  cent  each  to  heater  and  passer.  Many  expert 
riveters  earn  as  much  as  $60  a  week. 

We  crawled  under  the  bottom  of  the  Schoodic 
which  is  to  be  launched  tomorrow  morning.  She 
had  just  had  her  first  coat  of  paint,  and  her  tall, 
graceful  bow  loomed  high  in  air  on  the  slanting 
shipway.  Mr.  White,  the  engineer  in  charge  of  the 
launchings,  was  kind  enough  to  show  me  the  inge- 
nious system  of  shores,  packing  and  "sandjacks" 
which  holds  up  the  hull  on  the  ways  and  the  special 
Hog  Island  grease  which  is  used  to  ease  the  ship's 
slide  toward  the  water.  The  cunning  manipula- 
tion by  which  the  ship's  great  weight  is  thrown  off 
the  shores  onto  the  "sandjacks,"  and  then  lowered 
by  removing  the  sand  from  these  iron  boxes,  would 
require  an  essay  in  itself.  Not  one  of  Hog  Island's 
launchings — and  they  have  had  nineteen — has 
been  marred  by  any  hitch.  Mr.  White  told  me 
that  his  gang  of  120  men  can  put  through  a  launch- 
ing in  two  hours  and  a  half  from  the  time  they  first 
begin  work. 

In  the  training  school,  where  about  200  men  are 
learning  the  various  shipbuilding  trades,  92  per 
cent  of  the  pupils  are  former  soldiers  and  sailors. 
They  are  all  men  of  powerful  physique,  but  many 
of  them  were  in  sedentary  clerical  occupations 
before  the  war.  Many  a  man  who  has  served  in 
the  army  has  no  taste  now  to  re-enter  a  trade  that 
will  keep  him  indoors  eight  or  ten  hours  a  day. 


80 HOG  ISLAND 

I  must  confess  to  an  envy  of  those  brawny  fellows 
who  were  learning  to  drive  rivets.  And  after  the 
army  pay  of  $30  or  so  a  month  it  must  seem  good 
to  get  $20  a  week  while  learning  the  job. 

Hog  Island  is  a  poem,  a  vast  bracing  chant  of 
manly  achievement  in  every  respect,  that  is,  save 
the  names  of  the  ships  they  are  building  down 
there.  I  don't  think  Hog  Island  workmen  will 
ever  quite  forgive  Mrs.  Wilson  for  the  names  she 
chose  for  their  cherished  and  beautiful  ships! 
Quistconck,  Saccarappa,  Sacandaga,  Saguache, 
Sapinero,  Sagaporack,  Schoodic,  Saugus,  Schroon 
— what  will  homely  sailormen  make  of  these  odd 
Indian  syllables?  As  one  said  to  me,  whimsically, 
"Think  of  some  wireless  operator,  calling  for  help, 
trying  to  get  that  name  across!" 

We  must  assume,  however,  that  no  Hog  Island 
ship  will  ever  be  in  distress,  from  her  own  fault  at 
any  rate.  The  experiment  of  "fabricated"  ships 
was  watched  with  eagerness  by  all  shipping  experts 
some  of  whom  didn't  believe  it  could  be  successful. 
The  first  chapter  of  Hog  Island's  epic  closes  fitly 
with  this  cablegram,  received  the  other  day  from 
the  American  International  Shipbuilding  Corpora- 
tion's representative  in  Rome : 

Rome,  March  16. — Quistconck  arrived  March 
8th,  Savona.  Excellent  voyage.  Has  been  in- 
spected by  representatives  of  government,  steam- 
ship companies  and  banks.  Opinion  favorable. 
Hope  you  will  be  able  to  send  more  of  that  type. 


SOUTH  BROAD  STREET  81 

Hog  Island  men  have  accomplished  what  they 
have  partly  because  they  go  about  their  work  with 
such  a  sense  of  humor.  There  are  more  grins  to 
the  square  acre  down  there  than  any  place  I  ever 
visited.  The  Hog  Islander  who  drove  me  down  was 
grumbling  because  the  man  driving  the  car  in  front 
didn't  give  the  usual  signal  when  turning  across 
our  path.  "Why  doesn't  he  hold  out  his  hand?" 
he  muttered.  "Must  be  afraid  a  flivver  will  run 
up  his  arm."  That's  the  jovial  spirit  of  Hog 
Island. 


SOUTH  BROAD  STREET 

ONE  OF  the  singularly  futile  and  freakish  little 
"literary"  magazines  that  flourish  among  desic- 
cated women  and  men  whose  minds  are  not  old 
enough  for  the  draft  proudly  raises  the  slogan  that 
it  "Makes  no  compromise  with  the  public  taste." 

What  I  like  about  South  Broad  street  is  that  it 
does  make  compromise  with  the  public  taste,  every 
possible  compromise.  In  the  course  of  a  three-mile 
stroll  from  the  City  Hall  down  to  the  South  Broad 
Street  plaza  one  may  see  almost  every  variety  of 
human  interest.  It  is  as  though  South  Broad  street 
had  made  up  its  mind  to  see  all  phases  of  life 
before  leaping  into  the  arms  of  Uncle  Sam  at 
League  Island.  It  is  like  the  young  man's  last 
night  with  the  boys  before  enlisting. 

"Broad  and  Chestnut"  is  a  Philadelphia  phrase 
of  great  sanctity.  It  is  uttered  with  even  greater 


82  SOUTH  BROAD  STREET 

awe  than  the  New  Yorker's  "Broadway  and 
Forty-second,"  as  though  the  words  summed  up 
the  very  vibration  and  pulse  of  the  town's  most 
sacred  life.  And  yet  why  is  it  that  Broad  street 
seems  to  me  more  at  ease,  more  itself,  when  it  gets 
away  from  the  tremendous  cliffs  of  vast  hotels 
and  office  mountains?  Our  Philadelphia  streets 
do  not  care  to  be  mere  tunnels,  like  the  canyon 
flumes  of  Manhattan.  We  have  a  lust  for  sun  and 
air. 

So  when  Broad  street  escapes  from  the  shadow 
of  its  own  magnificence  it  runs  just  a  little  wild. 
In  its  sun-swept  airy  stretches  perhaps  it  abuses 
its  freedom  a  little.  It  kicks  up  its  heels  and  gets 
into  its  old  clothes.  Certainly  as  soon  as  one  gets 
south  of  Lombard  street  one  sees  the  sudden 
change.  Even  the  vast  and  dignified  gray  fagade 
of  the  Ridgway  Library  does  not  abash  our  high- 
way for  more  than  a  moment.  It  dashes  on  be- 
tween a  vast  clothing  factory  and  the  old  "South- 
ern and  Western  Railroad  Station."  It  indulges 
itself  in  small  clothing  stores,  lemonade  stands  and 
all  manner  of  tumble-down  monkey  business.  It 
seems  to  say,  "I  can  look  just  like  Spring  Garden 
street,  if  I  want  to." 

Perhaps  it  is  because  William  Penn  on  the  City 
Hall  is  looking  the  other  way  that  South  Broad 
street  feels  it  can  cut  up  without  reserve. 

The  Ridgway  Library  ought  to  be  able  to  daunt 
this  frisking  humor,  for  a  more  solemn  and  repres- 
sive erection  was  never  planned.  But  what  a  fas- 


SOUTH  BROAD  STREET  83 

cinating  place  it  is,  though  I  fear  not  much  of 
South  Broad  street  ever  takes  the  trouble  to  open 
those  iron  gates  marked  "Pull."  Perhaps  if  they 
had  been  marked  "Push"  the  public  would  have 
responded  more  eagerly.  But  who  are  we  to  dis- 
cuss the  subtleties  of  advertising  psychology?  As 
I  pass  the  long,  heavily-pillared  frontage  of  the 
library  I  seem  to  hear  the  quiet,  deliberate  ticking 
of  the  clock  in  the  cool,  gloomy  reading  room  and 
smell  the  faint,  delicious,  musty  fragrance  of  the 
old  volumes.  It  is  no  small  thrill  to  step  inside 
and  revel  in  the  dim  scholarly  twilight  of  this 
palace  of  silence,  to  pore  over  the  rare  books  in 
the  glass  showcases  and  explore  the  alcoves  where 
the  marvelous  collection  of  chess  books  is  kept. 
Those  alcoves  look  out  over  a  little  playground  at 
the  back,  where  the  shady  benches  would  be  an 
ideal  place  for  a  solemn  pipe ;  but  alas  no  men  are 
admitted.  The  playground  is  reserved  for  women 
and  children. 

Very  different  is  the  old  railroad  station  across 
the  way,  now  used  as  a  freight  depot.  Built  in 
1852,  it  was  Philadelphia's  crack  terminus  fifty 
years  ago,  and  as  one  studies  the  crumbled  brown- 
stone  front  one  thinks  of  all  the  eager  and  excited 
feet  that  must  have  passed  into  the  great  arched 
hall.  Now  it  is  boarded  up  in  front,  but  inside  it 
is  crammed  with  box  cars  and  vast  cases  stenciled 
"Rush — Military  Supplies — U.  S.  Army."  Sixty 
freight  cars  can  be  loaded  there  at  one  time.  One 
thinks  what  emotions  that  glass-roofed  shed  must 


84  SOUTH  BROAD  STREET 

have  seen  in  Civil  War  times.  I  suppose  many  a 
train  of  men  in  blue  said  good-by  to  mothers  and 
sweethearts  along  those  platforms.  That  thought 
was  with  me  as  I  stood  inside  the  old  station, 
which  in  spite  of  its  bustle  of  freight  is  filled  with 
the  haunting  sadness  of  all  places  that  are  old  and 
decayed  and  echoing  with  the  whispers  of  long  ago. 
Does  it  seem  absurd  to  sentimentalize  over  a  rail- 
way station  less  than  seventy  years  old?  Well,  I 
think  a  railway  station  is  one  of  the  most  romantic 
places  in  the  world.  I  like  to  imagine  the  old  loco- 
motives with  their  flaring  stacks.  And  as  I  crossed 
Washington  avenue  (which  runs  just  south  of  the 
station)  I  remembered  a  hot  day  in  June  twenty 
years  ago  when  I  tugged  a  roll  of  steamer  rugs 
down  that  street  from  the  trolley  to  the  American 
Line  pier.  We  were  going  on  board  the  old  Belgen- 
land,  bound  for  Liverpool.  Somewhere  along  the 
hot,  grimy  pavement  a  barrel  of  molasses  had 
broken  open;  I  recall  the  strong,  sweet  smell. 
Childhood  does  not  forget  such  adventures. 

Below  the  quartermaster  depot  of  the  marine 
corps  and  the  Third  Regiment  Armory,  Broad 
street  recalls  its  more  sober  responsibilities.  Sud- 
denly it  realizes  the  fleeting  uncertainty  of  life; 
perhaps  because  half  the  houses  hereabouts  are 
the  offices  of  doctors  and  undertakers.  It  falls  into 
a  quiet  residential  humor  about  Wharton  street 
and  lines  itself  with  trees  and  shady  awnings.  It 
seemed  to  me  I  could  discern  a  breath  of  Italy  in' 
the  air.  At  an  Italian  undertaker's  a  large  and 


SOUTH  BROAD  STREET  85 

sumptuous  coffin  was  lying  on  the  pavement  with- 
out any  embarrassment,  name-plate  and  all;  pre- 
sumably waiting  for  its  silent  passenger.  Among 
the  womenfolk  white  stockings  and  sparkling 
black  eyes  betrayed  the  Latin  blood.  And  I  saw 
that  a  church  lettered  its  notice  board  both  in 
Italian  and  English.  "Ingresso  Libero,"  it  said, 
which  I  take  to  mean  "Everybody  welcome!" 
The  same  sort  of  hospitality  is  evinced  by  the  doc- 
tors and  dentists.  They  all  have  little  notices  on 
their  doors:  "Walk  in  without  knocking." 

In  a  quaint  effort  to  retrieve  its  brief  escapade 
into  shabby  Bohemianism,  Broad  street  now  goes 
in  for  an  exaggerated  magnificence.  It  has  a  taste 
for  ornate  metal  doorknobs  and  brass  handles. 
(I  cannot  resist  the  thought  that  these  mannerisms 
were  caught  from  the  undertakers.)  Moving- 
picture  theatres  are  done  in  a  kind  of  Spanish 
stucco.  Basement  gratings  are  gilded;  parlor 
windows  are  banded  with  strips  of  colored  glass. 
The  brownstone  fronts  are  gabled  and  carved; 
cornices  are  fret  worked.  There  are  plaster  statues 
in  the  little  side  gardens.  It  is  the  opposite  swing 
of  the  architect's  pendulum  from  the  plain  and 
beautiful  old  houses  of  Pine  and  Spruce  streets, 
where  Philadelphia  expresses  herself  in  the  lovely 
simplicity  of  rich  old  brick  and  white  shutters. 

Apparently  Broad  street  lost  hope  of  gaining 
salvation  by  ornamenting  its  house  fronts,  for 
about  Morris  and  Mifflin  streets  it  turns  to  educa- 
tion and  philanthropy.  It  puts  up  large  hospitals, 


86  SOUTH  BROAD  STREET 

and  the  vast  gray  building  of  the  South  Philadel- 
phia High  School,  where,  reading  backward 
through  the  stained  glass  transom  I  discerned  the 
grave  and  very  Bostonian  motto:  "Work — Self- 
reliance — Culture — Life."  But  more  exhilarating 
to  me  was  the  Southern  Home  for  Friendless  Chil- 
dren at  Morris  street.  Its  large  playground  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  stone  wall.  I  could  easily  have 
scaled  it  and  would  have  loved  to  smoke  a  pipe 
sitting  up  there  to  watch  the  children  playing  in- 
side. (I  could  hear  their  laughter,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  small  boy  as  he  flew  up  in  the  air  on 
a  swing.)  But  I  feared  penalties  and  embarrass- 
ments. It  does  not  do  to  love  anything  too  well; 
people  naturally  are  suspicious  of  you.  And 
though  my  heart  was  warm  toward  the  Southern 
Home,  I  didn't  quite  like  to  do  what  I  yearned 
for.  That  would  have  been  to  ring  the  door  bell 
and  ask  to  go  in  and  play  in  the  garden  with  the 
others.  Instead  I  snooped  round  the  wall  until  I 
found  a  corner  with  a  glimpse  into  the  shady  ground 
where  the  urchins  were  busy.  One  small  boy  was 
working  in  his  garden,  others  were  burning  up  rub- 
bish and  hammering  at  something  along  the  wall. 
I  stood  there  a  long  time,  listening  to  the  warm, 
drowsy  hum  of  the  afternoon,  and  almost  wished 
I  were  a  friendless  child. 

After  this  excursion  into  culture  and  charity, 
Broad  street  feels  the  need  of  one  more  whistle- 
wetting  before  it  wanders  off  onto  the  vast  expanse 
of  sunny  pollen-scented  meadows  that  stretch  to- 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE  87 

ward  the  dry  zones  of  League  Island.  For  this 
purpose  exists  the  cool  haven  of  McBride,  on  the 
corner  of  Moyamensing  avenue.  There  I  encoun- 
tered one  of  the  best  beakers  of  shandygaff  in  my 
experience.  And — wonder  of  wonders — it  can  still 
be  bought  for  a  nickel. 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

WHO  can  describe  the  endless  fascination,  allure- 
ment and  magic  of  the  city?  It  is  like  a  great 
forest,  full  of  enchantment  for  the  eye  and  ear. 
What  groves  and  aisles  and  vistas  there  are  for 
wandering,  what  thickets  and  underbrush  to  ex- 
plore! And  how  curious  it  is  that  most  of  us  who 
frequent  the  city  follow  only  little  beaten  paths  of 
our  own,  rarely  looking  round  the  corner  or  in- 
vestigating (in  the  literal  sense)  unfamiliar  by- 
ways. We  tread  our  own  routine,  from  terminal 
or  trolley  to  office,  to  the  customary  lunching 
place,  back  to  the  office,  and  home.  Year  after 
year  we  do  this,  until  the  city  is  for  us  nothing  but 
a  few  tedious  streets  we  know  by  heart. 

But  how  dull  it  is  to  be  confined  to  one  life,  one 
habit,  one  groove  of  conduct.  Do  you  ever  pine 
to  shed  the  garment  of  well-worn  behavior,  to 
wander  off  into  the  side-paths  of  the  city,  to  lose 
yourself  in  its  great  teeming  life?  The  thought  is 
fascinating  to  me.  I  like  to  imagine  myself  dis- 
appearing one  day  from  my  accustomed  haunts, 
slipping  away  into  some  other  quarter  of  the  town, 


88  THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

taking  up  entirely  new  habits  and  environment. 
Ah,  that  would  be  an  adventure! 

I  think  I  would  emigrate  to  Franklin  Square 
which,  after  all,  is  only  a  few  blocks  north  of  the 
territory  where  I  oscillate  every  day,  but  it  seems 
almost  like  a  different  continent.  I  would  go  up 
to  Franklin  Square,  take  a  room  at  one  of  those 
theatrical  lodging  houses  on  the  western  side  of 
the  square,  grow  a  beard,  wear  a  wide  sombrero 
hat,  and  keep  my  pockets  full  of  sweetmeats  for 
the  children  of  the  square.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
months  quite  a  legend  would  accumulate  about 
me.  I  would  be  pointed  out  as  one  of  the  char- 
acters of  the  neighborhood.  Newspaper  reporters 
would  be  sent  to  interview  me.  Then  I  would 
shave  and  move  on  to  some  other  home. 

Franklin  Square  is  a  jolly  place  on  a  warm  day. 
There  are  red  and  pink  geraniums  round  the  pool 
in  the  middle.  There  is  the  drowsy  whirr  and  hum 
of  lawn  mowers.  There  is  a  sweet,  dull  air  moving 
gently  across  the  wide  grass  plots;  the  flag  waves 
heavily  on  the  tall  staff.  There  is  a  whole  posse  of 
baby  carriages  gathered  together  in  a  shady  patch 
of  pavement,  with  usually  one  small  girl  left  to 
"mind"  them  while  the  other  little  guardians  are 
sprinkling  themselves  with  water  at  the  stand- 
pipe,  or  playing  hopscotch  in  the  sun.  You  mind 
my  baby  and  I'll  mind  yours,  is  the  tacit  under- 
standing of  these  ragged  little  damsels.  But,  really 
it  is  surprising  how  little  minding  the  Franklin 
Square  babies  seem  to  need.  They  lie  in  their  car- 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE  80 

riages  furling  and  unfurling  their  toes  with  a  kind 
of  spartan  restraint.  They  refuse  to  bawl  or  to 
hurl  themselves  upon  the  paving  below,  because 
they  know  that  their  young  nurses  are  having  a 
good  time. 

Franklin  Square  policemen  are  stout  and  very 
jovial.  An  Italian  woman  was  sitting  on  a  bench 
opposite  mine;  she  had  a  baby  on  her  lap,  one 
leaning  against  her  knee,  three  sitting  on  the  bench 
with  her,  and  two  in  the  carriage.  Seven  in  all 
and  I  gathered  from  her  remarks  that  six  of  them 
were  boys.  ' '  Quite  an  army ! ' '  said  the  stout  police- 
man, passing  by.  Her  face  gleamed  with  the  quick 
pleasure  of  the  Latin  race.  "Ah,  yes,"  she  said, 
"Italians  good  for  boys!" 

On  the  west  side  of  the  square  are  the  theatrical 
boarding  houses,  where  ladies  with  very  short 
skirts  and  silk  stockings  air  little  fuzzy  white  dogs 
that  just  match  the  soiled  marble  steps.  Midway 
in  the  row  is  a  bulky  chocolate-colored  church, 
Deutsche  Evang.  Lutherische,  according  to  its 
signboard.  Gottesdienst,  Morgens  10:45,  Abends 
7:30.  It  is  well  for  us  to  remember  that  God  is 
worshiped  in  all  languages.  And  up  at  the  little 
news-stall  at  the  corner  of  Vine  street,  the  literary 
and  dramatic  leanings  of  Franklin  Square  seem  to 
be  reflected  in  the  assortment  of  paper-backed 
volumes  on  display.  "The  Confessions  of  an 
Actress,"  "The  Stranglers  of  Paris,"  and  "Chicago 
by  Night"  are  among  the  books  there,  also  some 
exceedingly  dingy  editions  of  Boccaccio  and 


90  THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

Napoleon's  Dream  Book.  I  could  learn  a  good 
deal,  I  am  sure,  by  studying  those  volumes. 

Franklin  Square  is  full  of  color.  The  green 
spaces  are  islanded  in  a  frame  of  warm,  red  brick. 
The  fountain  bubbles  whitely,  the  flag  is  an  eager 
spot  of  brightness  on  the  tall  white  mast.  Shop 
windows  seem  to  display  a  broader,  more  lilting 
kind  of  poster  than  they  do  on  Market  street. 
There  is  one  on  a  by-street  representing  a  young 
man  blowing  heart-shaped  smoke  rings  and  a 
glorious  young  woman  is  piercing  them  with  a 
knitting  needle  or  some  other  sharp  instrument. 

I  don't  know  just  what  I  would  do  for  a  living 
on  Franklin  Square.  The  only  thought  that  has 
occurred  to  me  is  this:  some  one  must  have  to 
look  after  those  little  white  dogs  while  their  de- 
bonair mistresses  are  at  the  theatre.  Why  couldn't 
I  do  that,  for  a  modest  fee?  I  would  take  them  all 
out  at  night  and  tow  them  through  the  fountain 
pool.  It  would  serve  to  bleach  them. 

Another  thing  I  could  do,  which  I  have  always 
wanted  to  do,  would  be  to  decipher  the  last  line  of 
the  small  tombstone  that  stands  over  the  pathetic 
grave  of  Benjamin  Franklin's  little  son.  That  is 
not  far  from  the  square.  The  stone  reads,  as  far  as 
I  can  make  it  out,  Francis  F.,  Son  of  Benjamin 
and  Deborah  Franklin,  Deceased  Nov.  21,  1736. 
Aged  4  years.  The  number  of  months  and  days  I 
can't  make  out,  nor  the  last  line  of  the  epitaph, 
which  begins  with  the  sadly  expressive  word  De- 
light. It  is  much  effaced,  and  without  squatting 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  FRANKLIN  SQUARE  91 

on  Ben  Franklin's  tomb  I  can't  read  it.  And  as 
there  are  usually  some  young  ladies  sitting  knitting 
on  the  bench  by  the  grave  I  am  too  bashful  to  do 
that.  But  if  I  lived  in  Franklin  Square  I  would 
find  a  way  somehow. 

But  much  as  I  love  it,  I  doubt  if  I  could  live  in 
Franklin  Square  long.  There  is  an  air  of  unrest 
about  it,  of  vagabond  whimsy.  The  short-skirted 
ladies  would  come  and  go,  and  sooner  or  later  the 
bearded  recluse,  with  his  pocket  full  of  candy,  and 
his  sombrero  hat,  would  disappear  and  only  the 
children  would  lament  his  going.  For  I  know  that 
if  I  were  a  wandering  blade  I  could  never  resist  a 
summons  like  this,  which  I  found  posted  up  just 
off  the  square.  Here  speak  Romance  and  Adven- 
ture, with  golden  lute : 

MEN  WANTED  TO  TRAVEL 

WITH  R 'S  CIRCUS 

A  CHANCE  TO  SEE  THE  COUNTRY 

EXCELLENT  BOARD  AND  COMFORTABLE 

SLEEPING  CARS  PROVIDED  BY  THE  MANAGEMENT 


92    CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST. 


CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN 
STREET 

SPRING  GARDEN  STREET  is  a  pleasant  thorough- 
fare for  wandering  on  a  cool  summer  morning  about 
eight-thirty  of  the  clock.  It  has  been  my  diversion, 
lately,  to  get  off  the  Reading  train  at  the  Spring 
Garden  Station  and  walk  to  the  office  from  there 
instead  of  pursuing  the  too  familiar  route  from  the 
Terminal.  Try  it  some  day,  you  victims  of  habit. 
To  start  the  day  by  a  little  variation  of  routine  is 
an  excellent  excitement  for  the  mind. 

That  after-breakfast  period,  before  the  heat  be- 
gins, has  a  freshness  and  easy  vigor  of  its  own. 
Housewives  are  out  scrubbing  the  white  marble 
steps;  second-hand  furniture  dealers  have  spread 
their  pieces  on  the  pavement  for  better  inspection 
and  sit  in  their  morris  chairs  by  the  curb  to  read 
the  morning  paper.  Presumably  the  more  ease 
and  comfort  they  show  the  more  plainly  the 
desirability  of  a  second-hand  morris  chair  will  be 
impressed  on  the  passer-by;  such  is  the  psychol- 
ogy of  their  apparent  indolence.  A  fire  engine 
with  maroon  chassis  and  bright  silver  boiler  rum- 
bles comfortably  back  to  its  station  after  putting 
out  a  fire  somewhere.  The  barbers  are  out  wind- 
ing up  the  clock-work  that  keeps  their  red  and 
white  striped  emblems  revolving.  And  here  and 
there  on  the  pavement,  reclining  with  rich  relish 


CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST.    93 

where  the  sunlight  falls  in  white  patches,  are  gray 
and  yellow  cats. 

The  cats  of  Spring  Garden  street  are  plump  and 
of  high  cheer  and  they  remind  me  of  the  most 
famous  cat  that  ever  lived  in  that  neighborhood. 
She  was  a  big  tortoise-shell  puss  called  Catterina 
(Kate  for  short)  and  she  lived  in  a  little  three- 
story  brick  cottage  on  Brandy  wine  street,  which  is 
just  off  Seventh  street  behind  the  garage  that  now 
stands  on  the  northwest  corner  of  Seventh  and 
Spring  Garden.  Catterina  played  a  distinguished, 
even  a  noble,  part  in  American  literature.  I  am 
the  gladder  to  celebrate  her  because  I  do  not  be- 
lieve any  one  has  ever  paid  her  a  tribute  before. 
You  see,  she  happened  to  be  the  particular  pet  and 
playmate  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

It  is  curious  that  Philadelphia  pays  so  little 
honor  to  that  house  on  Brandywine  street,  which  is 
associated  with  the  brief  and  poignant  domestic 
happiness  of  that  brilliant  and  tragic  genius.  Poe 
lived  in  Philadelphia  from  1838  until  1844,  and 
during  the  last  two  or  three  years  of  his  stay  he 
occupied  the  little  brick  house  on  Brandywine 
street.  One  of  those  who  visited  it  then  described 
it  as  "a  small  house,  in  one  of  the  pleasant  and 
silent  neighborhoods  far  from  the  center  of  the 
town,  and  though  slightly  and  cheaply  furnished 
everything  in  it  was  so  tasteful  and  so  fitly  dis- 
posed that  it  seemed  altogether  suitable  for  a  man 
of  genius."  What  is  now  only  a  rather  dingy  back 
yard  was  then  a  little  garden  full  of  roses,  grape- 


94    CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST. 

vine  and  creepers.  Perhaps  the  pear  tree  that  is 
still  the  most  conspicuous  feature  of  the  yard  was 
growing  in  Poe's  tenancy.  It  was  a  double  tree, 
with  twin  trunks,  one  of  which  was  shattered  by 
lightning  quite  recently. 

Mrs.  William  Owens,  who  has  lived  in  the  house 
for  eight  years,  was  kind  enough  to  take  me 
through  and  showed  me  everything  from  attic  to 
cellar.  The  house  is  built  against  a  larger  four- 
story  dwelling  which  fronts  on  Seventh  street, 
now  numbered  as  530.  In  Poe's  day  the  two 
houses  were  separate,  the  larger  one  being  the 
property  of  a  well-to-do  Friend  who  was  his  land- 
lord. Since  then  doors  have  been  pierced  and  the 
whole  is  used  as  one  dwelling,  in  which  Mrs.  Owens 
takes  several  boarders.  It  would  interest  Poe 
perhaps  (as  he  was  once  in  the  army),  to  know 
that  a  service  flag  with  three  stars  hangs  from  the 
front  of  the  house.  The  stars  represent  John 
Pierce,  Harry  Bernhardt  and  Dominic  Dimonico, 
the  first  of  these  being,  as  I  understand,  a  foster 
son  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Owens. 

It  is  not  hard  to  imagine  the  charm  of  this  snug 
little  house  as  it  may  have  been  in  the  days  when 
Poe  (in  his  early  thirties)  and  his  sylphlike  young 
wife  and  heroic  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Clemm,  faced 
the  problem  of  living  on  the  irregular  earnings  of 
editing  and  writing.  Spring  Garden  was  then  near 
the  northern  outskirts  of  the  city :  the  region  was 
one  of  sober  ruddy  brick  (of  that  rich  hue  dear  to 
Philadelphia  hearts)  and  well  treed  and  gardened. 


CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST.     95 

Until  very  recent  years  an  old  lady  was  living,  a 
neighbor  of  Mrs.  Owens,  who  remembered  how 
Virginia  Poe  used  to  sit  at  the  window  and  play 
her  harp. 

The  house  is  well  and  solidly  built;  the  door 
opening  toward  Brandywine  street  still  has  its 
original  old-fashioned  bolt  lock,  which  Poe's  hand 
must  have  fastened  many  and  many  a  time.  The 
little  dining  room  has  a  fireplace,  now  filled  in  with 
a  stove.  In  one  of  the  rooms  upstairs  (according  to 
local  tradition)  "The  Raven"  was  written;  and 
there  are  two  bedrooms  with  casement  windows  in 
the  attic.  Some  of  Poe's  finest  work  was  done  in 
this  house,  among  other  tales  probably  "The  Mur- 
ders in  the  Rue  Morgue,"  "The  Gold  Bug"  and 
"The  Black  Cat."  And  here  a  curious  coincidence 
may  be  noted.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the 
story  of  "The  Black  Cat"  Poe  describes  how  some 
very  unpleasant  digging  was  done  in  a  cellar.  In 
cleaning  the  cellar  of  the  Brandywine  street  house 
Mrs.  Owens  discovered  recently  a  place  where  the 
bricks  in  the  flooring  had  been  removed  and  a 
section  of  planking  had  been  put  in.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  this  circumstance  suggested  to  Poe  the 
grisly  theme  of  his  story?  Just  for  fun  I  would 
very  much  like  to  explore  under  those  boards. 
They  are  old  and  have  evidently  been  there  a  long 
time. 

Imagination  likes  to  conjure  up  the  little  house- 
hold: the  invalid  Virginia  Poe  (it  was  in  this  house 
that  she  broke  a  blood  vessel  while  singing),  the 


96    CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST. 

stout-hearted  and  all-sacrificing  mother-in-law — 
"Muddy,"  as  the  poet  affectionately  called  her — 
the  roses  that  grew  over  the  wall,  and  (let  us  not 
forget  her)  Catterina,  the  cherished  pet.  Catterina 
was  very  much  a  member  of  the  family.  In  April, 
1844,  when  Poe  and  his  wife  moved  to  a  boarding 
house  in  New  York,  where  they  found  the  table 
amazingly  cheap  and  plentiful,  he  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Clemm: 

"The  house  is  old  and  looks  buggy.  The  cheap- 
est board  I  ever  knew.  I  wish  Kate  could  see  it — 
she  would  faint.  Last  night,  for  supper,  we  had 
the  nicest  tea  you  ever  drank,  strong  and  hot — 
wheat  bread  and  rye  bread — cheese — tea  cakes 
(elegant),  a  great  dish  (two  dishes)  of  elegant  ham 
and  two  of  cold  veal,  piled  up  like  a  mountain — 
three  dishes  of  the  cakes  and  everything  in  the 
greatest  profusion.  No  fear  of  starving  here." 

Poor  Catterina!  (or  Kate,  as  they  sometimes 
called  her).  Does  not  this  suggestion  of  her 
swooning  imply  that  she  may  have  had  to  go  on 
rather  short  commons  in  the  little  home  on  Bran- 
dywine  street?  But  after  all,  there  must  have  been 
mice  in  the  cellar,  unless  the  ghost  of  the  Black 
Cat  frightened  them  away. 

In  the  same  letter,  written  from  New  York  the 
day  after  the  Poes  had  gone  there  to  look  for  better 
fortune,  he  says  "Sissy  (his  wife)  had  a  hearty  cry 
last  night  because  you  and  Catterina  weren't 
here." 

But  it  was  in  the  winter  of  1846-47,  when  Mrs. 


CATTERINA  OF  SPRING  GARDEN  ST.    97 

Poe  lay  dying  of  consumption  in  the  cottage  at 
Fordham,  that  Catterina  came  to  her  highest 
glory.  The  description  of  that  scene  touches  upon 
a  human  nerve  of  pity  and  compassion  that  must 
give  the  most  callous  a  pang.  Poe  himself,  har- 
assed by  poverty,  pride  and  illness,  had  to  witness 
the  sufferings  of  his  failing  wife  without  ability  to 
ease  them.  This  is  the  description  of  a  kind- 
hearted  woman  who  saw  them  then: 

"There  was  no  clothing  on  the  bed  but  a  snow- 
white  counterpane  and  sheets.  The  weather  was 
cold  and  the  sick  lady  had  the  dreadful  chills  that 
accompany  the  hectic  fever  of  consumption.  She 
lay  on  the  straw  bed,  wrapped  in  her  husband's 
great-coat  with  a  large  tortoise-shell  cat  in  her 
bosom.  The  wonderful  cat  seemed  conscious  of 
her  great  usefulness.  The  coat  and  the  cat  were 
the  sufferer's  only  means  of  warmth." 

Perhaps  Philadelphia  will  some  day  do  fitting 
honor  to  the  memory  of  that  ill-starred  household 
that  knew  its  best  happiness  in  the  little  house  on 
Brandywine  street.  Mr.  Owens,  who  is  a  druggist, 
has  whimsically  set  up  in  the  front  parlor  one  of 
the  big  scarlet  papier-mache  ravens  that  are  used 
to  advertise  Red  Raven  Splits.  But  it  seems  to  me 
that  Philadelphia  might  go  just  a  little  further 
than  that  in  honoring  the  house  where  "The 
Raven"  may  have  been  written. 


98  A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT 


A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT 
ABOUT  a  quarter  to  9  in  the  morning,  at  this 
time  of  year,  a  slice  of  our  pale  primrose-colored 
March  sunlight  cuts  the  bleak  air  across  the  junc- 
tion of  Broad  and  Chestnut  streets  and  falls  like 
a  shining  knife  blade  upon  the  low  dome  of  the 
Girard  Trust  Building.  Among  those  towering 
cliffs  of  masonry  it  is  hard  to  see  just  where  this 
shaving  of  brightness  slips  through,  burning  in  the 
gray-lilac  shadows  of  that  stone  valley.  But  there 
it  is,  and  it  always  sets  me  thinking. 

Man  has  traveled  far  in  his  strange  pilgrimage 
and  solaced  himself  with  many  lean  and  brittle 
husks.  It  is  curious  to  think  how  many  of  his 
ingenious  inventions  are  merely  makeshifts  to  ren- 
der tolerable  the  hardships  and  limitations  he  has 
imposed  upon  himself  in  the  name  of  "civiliza- 
tion." How  often  his  greatest  cunning  is  ex- 
pended in  devising  some  pathetic  substitute  for 
the  joy  that  once  was  his  by  birthright!  He  shuts 
himself  up  in  beetling  gibraltars  of  concrete,  and 
thinks  with  pride  of  the  wires,  fans  and  pipes  that 
bring  him  light,  air  and  warmth.  And  yet  sun- 
shine and  sky  and  the  glow  of  blazing  faggots  were 
once  common  to  all!  He  talks  to  his  friends  by 
telephone,  telegraph  or  machine-written  letters 
instead  of  in  the  heart-easing  face-to-face  of  more 
leisured  times.  He  invents  printing  presses  to  do 
his  thinking  for  him,  reels  of  translucent  celluloid 


A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT  99 

to  thrill  him  with  vicarious  romance.  Not  until 
the  desire  of  killing  other  men  came  upon  him  did 
he  perfect  the  loveliest  of  his  toys — the  airplane. 
How  far,  in  his  perverse  flight  from  the  natural 
sources  of  joy,  has  his  love  of  trouble  brought  him ! 

So  it  is  that  one  poor,  thin,  thwarted  filament  of 
sunlight,  falling  for  a  few  precious  minutes  across 
a  chasmed  city  street,  seems  so  dazzling  a  boon 
and  surprise  that  he  passes  enchanted  on  his  dark- 
ened pavement.  Man,  how  easily  you  are  pleased ! 

Is  there  any  one,  in  our  alternate  moods  of 
bafflement  and  exultation,  who  has  not  brooded  on 
this  queer  divergence  of  Life  and  Happiness? 
Sometimes  we  feel  that  we  have  been  trapped: 
that  Life,  which  once  opened  a  vista  so  broad  and 
golden,  has  somehow  jostled  and  hurried  us  into  a 
corner,  into  a  narrow  treadmill  of  meaningless 
gestures  that  exhaust  our  spirit  and  our  mirth.  In 
recent  years  all  humanity  has  been  herded  in  one 
vast  cage  of  confusion  and  dread  from  which  there 
seemed  no  egress.  Now  we  are  slowly,  bitterly, 
perplexedly  groping  our  way  out  of  it.  And  per- 
haps in  the  difficult  years  of  rebuilding  each  man 
will  make  some  effort  to  architect  his  existence 
anew,  creeping  humbly  and  hopefully  a  little 
closer  to  the  fountains  of  beauty  and  strength  that 
lie  all  about  us.  When  did  we  learn  to  cut  our- 
selves apart  from  earth's  miracles  of  refreshment? 
To  wall  ourselves  in  from  the  sun's  great  laughter, 
to  forget  the  flamboyant  pageantry  of  the  world? 
Earth  has  wisdom  for  all  our  follies,  healing  for  all 


100  A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT 

our  wounds,  dusk  and  music  for  all  our  peevish- 
ness. Who  taught  us  that  we  could  do  without 
her?  Can  you  hear  the  skylark  through  a  tele- 
phone or  catch  that  husky  whisper  of  the  pines  in  a 
dictograph?  Can  you  keep  your  heart  young  in  a 
row  of  pigeonholes?  Will  you  forego  the  surf  of 
ocean  rollers  to  be  serf  to  a  rolltop  desk? 

Little  by  little,  and  in  haphazard  ways,  wisdom 
comes  to  a  man.  No  matter  how  resolutely  he 
shuts  his  ears,  Truth  keeps  pricking  within  him. 
What  a  futility,  what  a  meanness  and  paltriness  of 
living  this  is  that  would  send  us  hence  with  all 
Life's  great  secrets  unlearned,  her  ineffable  beau- 
ties unguessed,  her  great  folio  only  hastily 
glimpsed.  Here  is  this  spinning  ball  for  us  to  mar- 
vel at,  turning  in  an  ever-changing  bath  of  color 
and  shadow,  blazed  with  sunshine,  drenched  with 
silver  rain,  leaning  through  green  and  orange  veils 
of  dusk,  and  we  creep  with  blinkered  eyes  along 
narrow  alleys  of  unseeing  habit.  What  will  it 
profit  us  to  keep  a  balance  at  the  bank  if  we  can't 
keep  a  balance  of  youth  and  sanity  in  our  souls? 
Of  what  avail  to  ship  carloads  of  goods  north,  east, 
south  and  west,  if  we  cannot  spare  time  to  know 
our  own  dreams,  to  exchange  our  doubts  and 
yearnings  with  our  friends  and  neighbors? 

In  every  man's  heart  there  is  a  secret  nerve  that 
answers  to  the  vibration  of  beauty.  I  can  imagine 
no  more  fascinating  privilege  than  to  be  allowed  to 
ransack  the  desks  of  a  thousand  American  business 
men,  men  supposed  to  be  hard-headed,  absorbed 


A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT  101 

in  brisk  commerce.  Somewhere  in  each  desk  one 
would  find  some  hidden  betrayal  of  that  man's 
private  worship.  It  might  be  some  old  newspaper 
clipping,  perhaps  a  poem  that  had  once  touched 
him,  for  even  the  humblest  poets  are  stout  par- 
tisans of  reality.  It  might  be  a  photograph  of 
children  playing  in  the  surf,  or  a  little  box  of  fish- 
hooks, or  a  soiled  old  timetable  of  some  queer 
backwoods  railroad  or  primitive  steamer  service 
that  had  once  carried  him  into  his  land  of  heart's 
desire. 

I  remember  a  friend  of  mine,  a  man  much  per- 
plexed by  the  cares  of  earth,  but  slow  to  give 
utterance  to  his  inner  and  tenderer  impulses,  tell- 
ing me  how  he  first  grasped  the  meaning  and 
value  of  these  inscrutable  powers  of  virtue  that 
hurl  the  whole  universe  daily  around  our  heads  in 
an  unerring  orbit.  For  some  reason  or  other — he 
was  writing  a  book,  I  think,  and  sought  a  place 
of  quiet — he  had  drifted  for  some  winter  weeks  to 
the  shore  of  a  southern  bay,  down  in  Florida. 
When  he  came  back  he  told  me  about  it.  It  was 
several  years  ago,  but  I  remember  the  odd  look  in 
his  eyes  as  he  tried  to  describe  his  experience.  "I 
never  knew  until  now,"  he  said,  "what  sunshine 
and  sky  meant.  I  had  always  taken  them  for 
granted  before."  He  told  me  of  the  strange  sensa- 
tion of  lightness  and  quiet  smiling  that  had  flooded 
through  him  in  that  land  where  Nature  writes  her 
benignant  lessons  so  plainly  that  all  must  draw 
their  own  conclusions.  He  told  me  of  sunset 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CATJFOR1 

.  .  •.*•  A      /-I/-VT  T  T7«rT     T  T 


102  A  SLICE  OF  SUNLIGHT 

flushes  over  long,  purple  waters,  and  of  lying  on 
sand  beaches  wrapped  in  sunshine,  all  the  prob- 
lems of  human  intercourse  soothed  away  in  a 
naked  and  unquestioning  content.  What  he  said 
was  very  little,  but  watching  in  his  eyes  I  could 
guess  what  had  happened.  He  had  found  more 
than  sunshine  and  color  and  an  arc  of  violet  sea. 
He  had  found  a  new  philosophy,  a  new  strength 
and  realization  of  the  worthiness  of  life.  He  had 
traveled  far  to  find  it:  it  might  just  as  well  be 
learned  in  Independence  Square  any  sunny  day 
when  the  golden  light  falls  upon  springing  grass. 
It  is  strange  that  men  should  have  to  be  re- 
minded of  these  things!  How  patiently,  how  per- 
sistently, with  what  dogged  and  misdirected  pluck, 
they  have  taught  themselves  to  ignore  the  ele- 
mental blessings  of  mankind,  subsisting  instead  on 
pale  and  wizened  and  ingenious  substitutes.  It 
is  like  a  man  who  should  shoulder  for  a  place  at  a 
quick  lunch  counter  when  a  broad  and  leisurely 
banquet  table  was  spread  free  just  around  the 
corner.  The  days  tick  by,  as  busy,  as  fleeting,  as 
full  of  empty  gestures  as  a  moving  picture  film. 
We  crowd  old  age  upon  ourselves  and  run  out  to 
embrace  it,  for  age  is  not  measured  by  number  of 
days  but  by  the  exhaustion  of  each  day.  Twenty 
days  lived  at  slow  pulse,  in  harmony  with  earth's 
loveliness,  are  longer  than  two  hundred  crowded 
with  feverish  appointments  and  disappointments. 
Many  a  man  has  lived  fifty  or  sixty  hectic  years 
and  never  yet  learned  the  unreckonable  endless- 


UP  THE  WISSAHICKON  103 

ness  of  one  day's  loitering,  measured  only  by  the 
gracious  turning  of  earth  and  sun.  Some  one  often 
asks  me,  "Why  don't  you  wind  the  clocks?"  But 
in  those  rare  moments  when  I  am  sane  clocks  do 
not  interest  me. 

Something  of  these  thoughts  flashes  into  my  mind 
as  I  see  that  beam  of  pale  and  narrow  sunlight 
fallen  upon  the  roof  of  that  bank  building.  How 
strange  it  is,  when  life  is  bursting  with  light  and 
strength,  renewing  itself  every  day  in  color  and 
freshness,  that  we  should  sunder  ourselves  from 
these  great  sources  of  power.  With  all  the 
treasures  of  earth  at  hand,  we  coop  ourselves  in 
narrow  causeways  where  even  a  sudden  knife-edge 
of  brightness  is  a  matter  for  joyful  surprise.  As 
Stevenson  once  said,  it  is  all  very  well  to  believe 
in  immortality,  but  one  must  first  believe  in  life. 
Why  do  we  grudge  ourselves  the  embraces  of  "Our 
brother  and  good  friend  the  Sun?" 


UP  THE  WISSAHICKON 
THE  SOOTHSAYER  is  a  fanatical  lover  of  Fair- 
mount  Park.  His  chief  delight  is  to  send  his  car  spin- 
ning along  the  Lincoln  Drive  about  the  time  the  sun 
drops  toward  setting;  to  halt  at  a  certain  hostelry 
(if  the  afternoon  be  chilly)  for  what  Charles  Lamb 
so  winningly  describes  as  "hot  water  and  its  better 
adjuncts";  and  then,  his  stormy  soul  for  the 
moment  at  armistice  with  life,  to  roll  in  a  gentle 
simmer  down  gracious  byways  while  the  Park 


104  UP  THE  WISSAHICKQN 

gathers  her  mantle  of  dusk  about  her.  Sometimes 
he  halts  his  curricle  in  some  favorite  nook,  climbs 
back  into  the  broad,  well-cushioned  tonneau  seat 
and  lies  there  smoking  a  cigarette  and  watching 
the  lights  along  the  river.  The  Park  is  his  favorite 
relaxation.  He  carries  its  contours  and  colors  and 
sunsets  in  the  spare  locker  of  his  brain,  and  even 
on  the  most  trying  day  at  his  office  he  is  a  little 
happier  because  he  knows  the  Wissahickon  Drive 
is  but  a  few  miles  away.  Wise  Soothsayer!  He 
should  have  been  one  of  the  hermits  who  came 
from  Germany  with  Kelpius  in  1694  and  lived 
bleakly  on  the  hillsides  of  that  fairest  of  streams, 
waiting  the  millennium  they  expected  in  1700. 

The  Soothsayer  had  long  been  urging  me  to 
come  and  help  him  worship  the  Wissahickon 
Drive,  and  when  luck  and  the  happy  moment  con- 
spired I  found  myself  carried  swiftly  past  the 
Washington  Monument  at  the  Park  entrance  and 
along  the  margin  of  the  twinkling  Schuylkill.  At 
first  there  was  nothing  of  the  hermit  in  the  Sooth- 
sayer's conversation.  He  was  bitterly  condemning 
the  handicraft  of  a  certain  garage  mechanic  who 
had  done  something  to  his  "  clutch."  He  included 
this  fallacious  artisan  in  the  class  of  those  he 
deems  most  degraded:  The  People  Who  Don't 
Give  a  Damn.  For  intellectual  convenience,  the 
Soothsayer  tersely  ascribes  all  ills  that  befall  him 
to  Bolshevism.  If  the  waitress  is  tardy  in  deliver- 
ing his  cheese  omelet,  she  is  a  bolshevixen.  If  a 
motortruck  driver  skims  his  polished  fender,  he  is 


UP  THE  WISSAHICKON  105 

a  bolshevik.  In  other  words,  those  who  Don't 
Give  a  Damn  are  bolsheviks. 

The  Soothsayer  lamented  that  I  had  not  been 
in  the  Park  with  him  two  weeks  ago,  when  the 
autumn  foliage  was  a  blaze  of  glowing  color.  But 
to  my  eye  the  tints  (it  was  the  first  of  November) 
were  unsurpassably  lovely.  It  was  a  keen  after- 
noon, the  air  was  sharp,  the  sky  flushing  with  rose 
and  massed  with  great  banks  of  cloud  the  bluish 
hue  of  tobacco  smoke.  When  we  neared  the  cor- 
ner of  Peter's  Island  the  sun  slid  from  under  a 
cloudy  screen  and  transfused  the  thin  bronze- 
yellow  of  the  trees  with  a  pale  glow  which  sparkled 
as  the  few  remaining  leaves  fluttered  in  the  wind. 
Most  of  the  leafage  had  fallen  and  was  being 
burnt  in  bonfires  at  the  side  of  the  road,  where 
the  gusts  tossed  and  flattened  the  waving  flames. 
But  the  trees  were  still  sufficiently  clothed  to  show 
a  rich  tapestry  of  russet  and  orange  and  brown, 
sharpened  here  and  there  by  wisps  and  shreds  of 
yellow.  And  where  the  boughs  were  wholly 
stripped  (the  silver-gray  beeches,  for  instance) 
their  delicate  twigs  were  clearly  traced  against  the 
sky.  I  think  one  hears  too  much  of  the  beauty  of 
October's  gold  and  scarlet  and  not  enough  of  the 
sober,  wistful  richness  of  November  buffs  and  duns 
and  browns. 

The  Wissahickon  Drive  is  the  last  refuge  of  the 
foot  and  the  hoof,  for  motors  are  not  allowed  to 
follow  the  trail  up  the  ravine,  which  still  remains 
a  haunt  of  ancient  peace — much  more  so,  indeed, 


106  UP  THE  WISSAHICKON 

than  in  former  years,  when  there  must  have  been 
many  and  many  a  smart  turnout  spanking  up  the 
valley  for  supper  at  the  Lotus  Inn.  Over  the  ruins 
of  this  hostelry  the  Soothsayer  becomes  sadly 
eloquent,  recalling  how  in  his  salad  days  he  used 
to  drive  out  from  town  in  a  chartered  hansom  and 
sit  placidly  on  a  honeysuckled  balcony  over 
chicken  and  waffles  served  with  the  proper  flourish 
by  a  colored  servitor  named  Pompey.  But  we 
must  take  things  as  we  see  them,  and  though  my 
conductor  rebuked  me  for  thinking  the  scene  so 
lovely — I  should  have  been  there  not  only  two 
weeks  ago  to  see  the  autumn  colors,  but  ten  years 
ago  to  see  Pompey  and  the  Lotus  Inn — still,  I  was 
marvelously  content  with  the  dusky  beauty  of  the 
glades.  The  cool  air  was  rich  with  the  damp, 
sweet  smell  of  decaying  leaves.  A  tiny  murmur  of 
motion  rose  from  the  green-brown  pools  of  the 
creek,  ruffled  here  and  there  with  a  milky  bubble  of 
foam  below  some  boulder.  In  the  feathery  tops  of 
evergreen  trees,  blackly  outlined  against  the  clear 
arch  of  fading  blue,  some  birds  were  cheeping  a 
lively  squabble.  We  stopped  to  listen.  It  was 
plainly  an  argument,  of  the  kind  in  which  each  side 
accuses  the  other  of  partisanship.  "Bolshevism !" 
said  the  Soothsayer. 

It  is  wonderfully  still  in  the  Wissahickon  ravine 
in  a  pale  November  twilight.  Overhead  the  sky 
darkened;  the  sherry-brown  trees  began  to  shed 
something  of  their  rich  tint.  The  soft  earth  of  the 
roadway  was  grateful  underfoot  to  those  too  accus- 


UP  THE  WISSAHICKON  107 

toined  to  pavement  walking.  Along  the  drive 
came  the  romantic  thud  of  hoofs:  a  party  of  girls 
on  horseback  perhaps  returning  from  tea  at  Valley 
Green.  What  a  wonderful  sound  is  the  quick 
drumming  of  horses'  hoofs!  To  me  it  always 
suggests  highwaymen  and  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son. We  smoked  our  pipes  leaning  over  the 
wooden  fence  and  looking  down  at  the  green 
shimmer  of  the  Wissahickon,  seeing  how  the  pallor 
of  sandy  bottom  shone  up  through  the  clear  water. 

And  then,  just  as  one  is  about  to  sentimentalize 
upon  the  beauty  of  nature  and  how  it  shames  the 
crass  work  of  man,  one  comes  to  what  is  perhaps 
the  loveliest  thing  along  the  Wissahickon — the 
Walnut  Lane  Bridge.  Leaping  high  in  air  from 
the  very  domes  of  the  trees,  curving  in  a  sheer 
smooth  superb  span  that  catches  the  last  western 
light  on  its  concrete  flanks,  it  flashes  across  the 
darkened  valley  as  nobly  as  an  old  Roman  viaduct 
of  southern  France.  It  is  a  thrilling  thing,  and  I 
scrambled  up  the  bank  to  note  down  the  names  of 
the  artists  who  planned  it.  The  tablet  is  dated 
1906,  and  bears  the  names  of  George  S.  Webster, 
chief  engineer;  Henry  H.  Quimby,  assistant  engi- 
neer; Reilly  &  Riddle,  contractors.  Many  poets 
have  written  verses  both  good  and  bad  about  the 
Wissahickon,  but  Messrs.  Reilly  &  Riddle  have 
spanned  it  with  a  poem  that  will  long  endure. 

We  walked  back  to  the  Soothsayer's  bolshevized 
car,  which  waited  at  the  turning  of  the  drive  where 
a  Revolutionary  scuffle  took  place  between  Amer- 

8 


108 DARKNESS  VISIBLE 

ican  troops  and  a  detachment  of  redcoats  under  a 
commander  of  the  fine  old  British  name  of  Kny- 
phausen.  As  we  whirred  down  to  the  Lincoln 
Drive  and  I  commented  on  the  lavender  haze  that 
overhung  the  steep  slopes  of  the  glen,  the  Sooth- 
sayer said:  "Ah,  but  you  should  have  seen  it  two 
weeks  ago.  The  trees  were  like  a  cashmere  shawl ! ' ' 
I  shall  have  to  wait  fifty  weeks  before  I  can  see 
the  Wissahickon  in  a  way  that  will  content  the 
fastidious  Soothsayer. 


DARKNESS  VISIBLE 

OF  ALL  gifts  to  earth,  the  first  and  greatest  was 
darkness.  Darkness  preceded  light,  you  will  re- 
member, in  Genesis.  Perhaps  that  is  why  darkness 
seems  to  man  natural  and  universal.  It  requires 
no  explanation  and  no  cause.  We  postulate  it. 
Whereas  light,  being  to  our  minds  merely  the 
cleansing  vibration  that  dispels  the  black,  requires 
some  origin,  some  lamp  whence  to  shine.  From 
the  appalling  torch  of  the  sun  down  to  the  pale 
belly  of  the  glowworm  we  deem  light  a  derivative 
miracle,  proceeding  from  some  conceivable  source. 
We  can  conceive  darkness  without  thought  of 
light;  but  we  cannot  conceive  light  without  dark- 
ness. Day  is  but  an  interval  between  two  nights. 
In  other  words,  darkness  is  a  matter  which  includes 
light  just  as  the  conception  of  a  joke  includes  that 
of  humor.  One  can  think  (alas!)  of  jokes  without 


DARKNESS  VISIBLE 109 

humor;  but  no  one  can  conceive  of  humor  without 
jokes. 

This  philosophy,  probably  scoffable  for  the 
trained  thinker,  is  a  clumsy  preface  to  the  thought 
that  city  streets  at  night  are  the  most  fascinating 
work  of  man.  Like  all  other  handouts  of  nature, 
man  has  taken  darkness  and  made  it  agreeable, 
trimmed  and  refined  and  made  it  acceptable  for 
the  very  nicest  people.  And  the  suburbanite  who 
finds  himself  living  in  town  for  a  week  or  so  is 
likely  to  spend  his  whole  evenings  in  wandering 
espial,  poring  over  the  glowing  caves  of  shop  win- 
dows and  rejoicing  in  the  rich  patterns  of  light 
wherewith  man  has  made  night  lovely.  Night  by 
herself,  naked  and  primitive  and  embracing,  is  em- 
barrassing; she  crowds  one  so;  there  is  so  much 
of  her.  So  we  push  her  up  the  side  streets  and 
into  the  movie  halls  and  out  to  the  suburbs,  and 
taking  her  a  little  at  a  time  we  really  learn  to 
enjoy  her  company. 

There  is  a  restaurant  on  Arch  street  near  Ninth 
where  one  may  dine  on  excellent  jam  omelet  and 
coffee,  after  which  it  is  good  to  stroll  along  Ninth 
street  (which  with  its  tributary  Ludlow  I  esteem 
the  best  street  we  have)  to  admire  the  different 
tints  of  light  that  man  has  set  out  in  order  to  get 
a  look  at  the  darkness.  There  is  the  wan  white 
glow  of  the  alabaster  inverted  bowls  that  are 
favored  in  barbers'  shops.  There  is  the  lucent 
gold  of  jewelers'  windows  where  naked  electric 
bulbs  of  great  candlepower  are  masked  in  silvered 


110 DARKNESS  VISIBLE 

reflectors  along  the  top  and  bottom  of  the  pane. 
There  is  the  bleak  moonshine  of  tiled  and  enameled 
restaurants,  where  they  lose  much  lightness  by 
having  everything  too  white.  If  (for  instance)  the 
waitresses  would  only  wear  scarlet  or  black  dresses, 
how  much  more  brilliant  the  scene  would  be. 
There  is  the  pale  lilac  and  lavender  of  the  arcs, 
and  the  vicious  green  glare  of  mercury  vapor 
tubes  in  the  ten  minute  photograph  studios  that 
are  always  full  of  sailors.  Over  all  soars  the  orango 
disc  of  the  City  Hall  clock,  which  has  been  hailed 
by  so  many  romantic  wastrels  as  the  rising  or 
setting  moon.  And  the  fierce  light  that  is  said  to 
beat  upon  a  throne  is  twilight  compared  to  that 
which  shimmers  round  our  jewelled  soda  fountains. 
The  long,  musty  corridor  of  the  postoffice  on 
Ninth  Street  is  an  interesting  place  about  8  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  Particularly  in  these  last  weeks, 
when  movies,  saloons  and  theatres  have  been 
closed  on  account  of  the  influenza  epidemic,  the 
postoffice  has  become  a  trysting  place  for  men  in 
uniform  and  young  ladies.  The  gloomy  halls  at 
each  end  of  the  corridor  are  good  ground  for  gig- 
gling colloquy;  light  love  (curiously)  approves  the 
dusk.  Through  the  little  windows  one  catches 
glimpses  of  tiers  of  pigeonholes  packed  with  let- 
ters, and  wonders  what  secrets  of  the  variable 
human  heart  are  there  confided  to  the  indulgent 
secrecy  of  Uncle  Sam.  If  a  novelist  of  imaginative 
sympathy  might  spend  a  week  in  reading  through 
those  pigeonholes,  what  a  book  he  could  make  of 


DARKNESS  VISIBLE 111 

them!  Or  could  we  only  peer  over  the  shoulders 
of  those  who  stand  writing  at  the  blackened,  ink- 
stained  desks,  what  meshes  of  joy  and  pain  we 
might  see  raveled  in  the  lives  of  plain  men  and 
women.  The  great  tapestry  of  human  life  lies  all 
round  us,  and  we  have  to  pluck  clumsily  at  its 
patterns  thread  by  thread. 

One  who  is  interested  in  bookish  matters  ought 
to  make  a  point  of  going  upstairs  to  the  registered 
mail  room  on  the  second  floor.  In  a  corner  of  that 
room,  sitting  in  a  well-worn  chair  under  a  drop 
light,  you  may  be  fortunate  enough  to  find  one  of 
the  post-office  guards,  an  elderly  philosopher  who 
beguiles  the  evening  vigil  with  a  pipe  and  a  book. 
He  is  a  genial  sage  and  a  keen  devourer  of  print. 
He  eats  books  alive.  Marie  Corelli  and  Marion 
Crawford  are  among  his  favorites  for  lighter  min- 
istration, but  in  the  past  few  weeks  his  mind  has 
been  on  graver  matter.  He  has  just  finished  a  life 
of  Napoleon  and  a  biography  of  Joan  of  Arc. 
Tonight  when  I  went  in  to  register  a  letter  his 
chair  was  empty  (he  was  having  his  supper  of 
sandwiches  and  a  little  bucket  of  coffee  at  a  table 
in  the  dim  hallway  outside)  but  on  the  shelf  lay 
his  book,  pipe  and  tobacco  pouch.  I  could  not 
resist  peeking  to  see  what  the  volume  was.  Little's 
Life  of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi.  Verily,  if  our 
government  officials  are  taking  to  reading  of  Saint 
Francis,  the  world  looks  forward  to  happier  days. 

The  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  says  in  a  notice 
" Loitering  about  this  building  is  prohibited,"  but 


DARKNESS  VISIBLE 


I  fear  I  have  committed  what  Don  Marquis  used 
to  call  16se-McAdoo  in  often  halting  to  scrutinize 
the  bulletin  board  in  the  north  hall  of  the  post- 
office.  Here  are  posted  statements  of  stores  and 
materials  needed  by  the  Federal  departments. 
One  finds  such  notices  as  this:  Sealed  proposals 
mil  be  received  by  the  undersigned  until  2  o'clock 
p.  m.,  October  30,  for  supplying  this  building  with 
three  dozen  scrubbing  brushes.  And  the  Navy 
Yard's  bulletin  board,  near  by,  always  has  inter- 
esting requirements:  Wanted,  for  United  States 
naval  training  camp,  seventy-five  bubbling  heads 
sanitary  drinking  fountains.  (Imagine  how  amazed 
seamen  of  the  tarry  pigtail  era  would  be  at  the  idea 
of  drinking  from  a  sanitary  drinking  fountain!) 
The  Inspector  of  Engineering  Material,  U.  S.  N., 
Cleveland,  O.,  announces  that  he  desires  space  for 
storing  one  five-passenger  Ford  touring  car  and 
washing  it  at  least  once  each  week  for  the  period 
ending  June  30,  1919.  It  would  be  a  bit  incon- 
venient, we  think,  to  store  the  flivver  here  in 
Philadelphia.  The  Navy  Yard  desires  bids  for 
supplying  submarines  with  copper-jacketed  gas- 
kets, which  has  a  business-like  sound.  The  Public 
Works  Department  admits  that  one  dozen  mouse 
traps,  revolving,  are  needed,  to  be  delivered  and 
inspected  at  Building  No.  4,  Navy  Yard.  Wanted 
for  overseas  vessels  (here  our  heart  leaps  up  at  the 
prospect  of  something  exciting)  eleven  revolving 
office  chairs,  oak  finish,  and  eleven  dozen  pencils. 
The  Naval  Hospital  at  League  Island  asks  bids  on 


DARKNESS  VISIBLE 113 

100  poinsettias,  50  cyclamens,  100  primroses,  100 
carnations,  12  hydrangeas,  all  in  pots.  And  there 
are  requisitions  posted  for  wires  and  shackles,  for 
anchors  and  propellers,  for  chemicals  and  talcum 
powder  and  vast  radio  towers  to  be  erected  at  a 
naval  base  in  France.  War,  you  see,  is  not  all  a 
matter  of  powder  and  shot.  If  you  are  ever 
tempted  to  wonder  what  the  Government  does 
with  the  Liberty  Loans,  go  up  to  the  Federal 
Building  and  look  over  a  few  of  those  invitations 
for  bids  posted  on  the  bulletin  boards. 

Ninth  street,  as  I  said,  often  seems  to  me  the 
most  alluring  street  in  town.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
of  certain  bookshops;  perhaps  it  is  because  at  a 
table  d'hote  restaurant  above  Market  street  I  first 
learned  the  pleasant  combustion  of  cheap  claret 
and  cigarettes  ignited  by  the  spark  of  youthful 
converse.  To  these  discoveries  of  a  dozen  years 
ago  I  am  happy  to  add  others;  for  example,  that 
the  best  spaghetti  I  have  ever  eaten  is  served  on 
Ninth  street;  and  that  there  is  a  second-hand 
bookstore  which  is  open  at  night.  Nor  am  I  likely 
to  forget  a  set-to  with  sausages  and  corncakes  and 
sirup  that  I  enjoyed  on  Ninth  street  the  other 
evening  with  the  Soothsayer.  We  had  been  mo- 
toring in  the  suburbs,  a  crisp  and  bravely  tinted 
October  afternoon,  and  getting  back  to  town  after 
8  o'clock  as  hungry  as  bolshevik  commissars,  we 
entered  into  the  joy  of  the  flesh  in  a  Ninth  street 
hash  cathedral.  Here  and  now  let  me  pay  tribute 
to  those  blissful  lunch  rooms  that  stay  open  late  at 


114 DARKNESS  VISIBLE 

night  to  sustain  and  replenish  the  toiler  whose 
business  it  is  to  pass  along  the  lonely  pavements  of 
midnight.  Waiters  and  waitresses  of  the  all-night 
shift,  we  who  are  about  to  eat  salute  you!  Let  it 
be  a  double  portion  of  corned-beef  hash  and  "  coffee 
with  plenty."  And  many  a  midnight  luncher  has 
blessed  you  for  your  unfailing  good  humor.  Is  it 
not  true,  admit  it,  that  most  of  the  happy  recol- 
lections of  mankind  deal  with  food  we  have 
enjoyed? 

You  will  find  it  well  worth  while  to  take  a  stroll 
up  Ninth  street  some  evening.  You  will  usually 
find  a  roasted  chestnut  cart  at  the  southeast 
corner  of  Market  street.  The  noble  savor  of  cook- 
ing chestnuts  is  alone  worth  the  effort  of  the  walk. 
Then  you  can  pass  on  northward,  by  the  animal 
shop,  where  the  dogs  sleep  uneasily  in  the  window, 
agitated  by  the  panorama  outside;  past  the 
cuckoo  clock  shop  and  the  old  Dime  Museum. 
As  the  street  leads  on  to  less  exalted  faubourgs 
you  will  notice  that  it  grows  more  luxurious. 
Windows  glow  with  gold  watches,  diamond  studs, 
cut  glass  carafes.  Haberdashers  set  out  $8  silk 
shirts,  striped  with  the  rainbow,  infinitely  more 
glorious  than  anything  to  be  found  on  Chestnut 
street.  And  then,  at  Race  street,  you  can  turn 
off  into  the  queer  sights  of  Chinatown. 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  BALTIMORE 
THE  other  day  we  had  occasion  to  take  a  B. 
and  0.  train  down  to  Baltimore.  We  had  to  hurry 
to  catch  the  vehicle  at  that  quaint  abandoned 
chateau  at  Twenty-fourth  and  Chestnut,  and 
when  we  settled  down  in  the  smoker  we  realized 
that  we  had  embarked  with  no  reading  matter  but 
a  newspaper  we  had  already  read.  We  thought, 
with  considerable  irritation,  that  we  were  going  to 
be  bored. 

We  were  never  less  bored  in  our  life  than  during 
that  two-hour  ride.  In  the  first  place,  the  line  of 
march  of  the  B.  and  O.  gives  one  quite  a  different 
view  of  the  country  from  the  course  of  the  P.  R.  R., 
with  which  we  are  better  acquainted.  From  the 
Pennsy,  for  instance,  Wilmington  appears  as  a 
smoky,  shackish  and  not  too  comely  city.  In  the 
eye  of  the  genteel  B.  and  0.  it  is  a  quiet  suburb, 
with  passive  shady  lawns  about  a  modest  station 
where  a  little  old  lady  with  a  basket  of  eggs  and 
black-finger  gloves  got  gingerly  on  board.  There 
were  a  number  of  colored  doughboys  in  the  car, 
just  landed  in  New  York  and  on  their  way  to 
southern  homes.  "  Oh,  boy ! "  cried  one  of  these  as 
we  left  Wilmington,  "de  nex'  stop's  Baltimuh,  an' 
dat's  wheah  mah  native  home  at."  Every  ten 
minutes  a  fawn-tinted  minion  from  some  rearward 
dining  car  came  through  with  a  tray  of  ice-cream 
cones,  and  these  childlike  and  amiable  darkies 


116     ON  THE  WAY  TO  BALTIMORE 

cleaned  out  his  stock  every  time.  They  had  all 
evidently  just  bought  new  and  very  narrow- toed 
cordovan  shoes  in  New  York;  there  was  hardly 
one  who  did  not  have  his  footgear  off  to  nurse  his 
tortured  members.  The  negro  soldier  has  a  genius 
for  injudicious  purchase.  We  saw  some  of  them 
the  other  day  in  a  "pawn-brokers'  outlet"  on 
Market  street  laying  down  their  fives  and  tens  for 
the  most  preposterous  gold  watches,  terrible  em- 
bossed and  flashy  engines  of  inaccuracy,  with 
chains  like  brass  hawsers,  obviously  about  as 
reliable  as  a  sundial  at  night. 

It  was  a  gray  and  green  day,  quite  cool — for  it 
was  still  early  forenoon — and  we  looked  out  on 
vanishing  woodlands  and  bosky  valleys  with  a 
delight  too  eager  to  express.  Why  (we  thought) 
should  any  sane  being  waste  his  energy  bedeviling 
the  Senate  when  all  a  lifetime  spent  in  attempting 
to  describe  the  beauty  of  earth — surely  an  inno- 
cent ambition — would  be  insufficient?  Statesmen, 
we  thought,  are  but  children  of  a  smaller  growth  ; 
and  with  a  superbly  evacuated  mind  we  gazed 
upon  the  meadows  and  dancing  streams  near 
Leslie,  just  over  the  Maryland  border.  There 
were  glimpses  of  that  most  alluring  vista  known 
to  man:  a  strip  of  woodland  thin  enough  to  let 
through  a  twinkle  of  light  from  the  other  side. 
What  a  mystery  there  is  about  the  edge  of  a  wood, 
as  you  push  through  and  wonder  just  what  you 
may  be  coming  to.  In  that  corner  of  Cecil  county 
there  are  many  Forest  of  Arden  glimpses,  where 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  BALTIMORE     117 

the  brown  and  velvety  cows  grazing  in  thickets 
seem  (as  the  train  flies  by)  almost  like  venison. 
There  are  swelling  meadows  against  the  sky,  white 
with  daisies  and  Queen  Anne's  lace;  the  lichened 
gray  fences,  horses  straining  at  the  harrow  and 
white  farmhouses  sitting  back  among  the  domes  of 
trees. 

Then  comes  the  glorious  Susquehanna — that 
noble  river  that  caught  the  fancy  of  R.  L.  S.,  you 
remember.  He  once  began  a  poem  with  the  re- 
frain, "Beside  the  Susquehanna  and  along  the 
Delaware."  Olive-green  below  the  high  railway 
bridge,  the  water  tints  off  to  silver  in  the  pale 
summer  haze  toward  Port  Deposit.  The  B.  and  O. 
bridge  strides  over  an  island  in  midstream,  and 
looking  down  on  the  tops  of  the  (probably)  maples, 
they  are  a  bright  yellow  with  some  blossom-busi- 
ness of  their  own.  A  lonely  fisherman  was  squat- 
ting in  a  gray  and  weathered  skiff  near  the  bridge. 
What  a  river  to  go  exploring  along! 

It  is  quaint  that  men,  who  love  to  live  in  damp 
and  viewless  hollows,  always  select  the  jovial  and 
healthy  spots  to  bury  themselves  in.  Just  beyond 
the  Susquehanna,  on  the  south  side  of  the  track, 
we  pass  a  little  graveyard  in  quite  the  most  charm- 
ing spot  thereabouts,  high  on  a  hill  overlooking  the 
wide  sweep  of  the  river.  And  then  again  the  green 
rolling  ridges  of  Harford  county,  with  yellow  dirt 
roads  luring  one  afoot,  and  the  little  brooks  scut- 
tling down  toward  Chesapeake  through  coverts  of 


118     ON  THE  WAY  TO  BALTIMORE 

fern  and  brambles.    We  remembered  the  lovely 
verse  of  the  Canadian  poet,  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts : 

Comes  the  lure  of  green  things  growing, 
Comes  the  call  of  waters  flowing — 

And  the  wayfarer  desire 
Moves  and  wakes  and  would  be  going. 

What  a  naughtiness  of  pagan  temptation  sings 
to  one  across  that  bewitching  country;  what  illicit 
thoughts  of  rolltop  desks  consumed  in  the  bonfire, 
of  the  warm  dust  soft  under  the  bootsoles,  and  the 
bending  road  that  dips  into  the  wood  among  an 
ambush  of  pink  magnolias.  If  the  train  were  to 
halt  at  one  of  those  little  stations — say  Joppa,  near 
the  Gunpowder  river — there  might  be  one  less 
newspaper  man  in  the  world.  I  can  see  him,  drop- 
ping off  the  train,  lighting  his  pipe  in  the  windless 
shelter  of  a  pile  of  weather-beaten  ties,  and  setting 
forth  up  the  Gunpowder  valley  to  discover  the 
romantic  hamlets  of  Madonna  and  Trump,  lost  in 
that  green  paradise  of  Maryland  June.  Or  the 
little  town  of  Loreley,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stream !  Think  of  the  fireflies  and  the  honeysuckle 
on  a  June  evening  in  the  village  of  Madonna! 
Ah,  well,  of  what  avail  to  imagine  these  things! 
The  train,  unluckily,  does  not  stop. 

And  Baltimore  itself,  with  its  unique  and 
leisurely  charm,  its  marvelously  individual  atmo- 
sphere of  well-being  and  assured  loveliness  and  old 
serenity,  how  little  it  realizes  how  enchanting  it  is! 
Baltimore  ought  to  pay  a  special  luxury  tax  for  the 


THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 119 

dark-eyed  and  almost  insolent  beauty  of  its  girls, 
who  gaze  at  one  with  the  serene  candor  of  un- 
questioned divinity.  But  that  is  a  topic  that  be- 
longs to  Baltimore  chroniclers,  and  we  may  not 
trespass  on  their  privileges. 

At  any  rate,  we  got  our  fishing  rod,  which  is 
what  we  went  for. 


THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 

IT  is  always  puzzling  to  the  wayfarer,  when  he 
has  traveled  to  some  sacred  spot,  to  find  the  local 
denizens  going  about  their  concerns  as  though 
unaware  that  they  are  on  enchanted  ground.  It 
used  to  seem  a  hideous  profanation  to  the  Bae- 
deker-stained tourist  from  Marsupial  City,  Ind., 
to  step  off  the  train  at  Stratford  and  find  the 
butcher's  cart  jogging  about  with  flanks  and 
rumps.  And  even  so  does  it  seem  odd  to  me  that 
people  are  getting  aboard  the  Paoli  local  every 
day,  just  as  though  it  were  the  normal  thing  to 
do  instead  of  (what  it  really  is)  an  excursion  into 
Arcadia. 

Some  day  a  poet  will  lutanize  the  Paoli  local  as 
it  ought  to  be  done,  in  a  tender  strain — 

Along  that  green  embowered  track 
My  heart  throws  off  its  pedlar's  pack 
In  memory  commuting  back 

Now  swiftly  and  now  slowly — 
Ah!  lucky  people,  you,  in  sooth 
Who  ride  that  caravan  of  youth 

The  Local  to  Paoli! 


120 THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 

The  2:15  train  is  a  good  one  to  take,  for  it 
affords  an  interesting  opportunity  to  observe  those 
who  may  be  called  sub-commuters:  the  people 
who  come  in  town  in  the  morning,  like  honest 
working  folk,  but  get  back  to  the  country  after 
lunch.  These,  of  course,  are  only  half-breed  com- 
muters. They  are  the  silver-chevron  suburbanites, 
deserving  not  the  true  golden  stripes  of  those  who 
moil  all  day.  They  are  teachers,  schoolboys,  golfo- 
maniacs  and  damsels  from  the  home  of  Athene, 
Bryn  Mawr.  They  are  mere  cherubim  and  sera- 
phim, not  archangels.  Stern  and  grizzled  veterans, 
who  go  home  on  the  Hjw6:05  ("H"  Will  not  run 
New  Year's,  Memorial,  Independence,  Thanksgiv- 
ing and  Christmas  Days;  "  j "  will  not  run  Satur- 
days June  7  to  Sept.  27,  both  inclusive;  "w"  No 
baggage  service)  speak  of  them  scornfully  as  "Sam 
Brown  belt  commuters." 

One  who  was  nourished  along  the  line  of  the 
Paoli  local,  who  knew  it  long  before  it  became 
electrified  with  those  spider-leg  trolleys  on  its  roof 
and  before  the  Wynnewood  embankments  were 
lined  with  neat  little  garages,  sometimes  has  an 
inner  pang  that  it  is  getting  a  bit  too  civilized. 
And  yet  no  train  will  ever  mean  to  us  what  that 
does!  The  saying  that  was  good  enough  for  Queen 
Mary  and  Mr.  Browning  is  good  enough  for  me. 
When  I  die,  you  will  find  the  words  PAOLI  LOCAL 
indelibled  on  my  heart.  When  the  Corsican  pa- 
triot's bicentennial  comes  along,  in  1925,  I  hope 
there  will  be  a  grand  reunion  of  all  the  old  travelers 


THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 121 

along  that  line.  The  railroad  will  run  specially 
decorated  trains  and  distribute  souvenirs  among 
commuters  of  more  than  forty  years'  standing. 
The  campus  of  Haverford  College  will  be  the 
scene  of  a  mass-meeting.  There  will  be  reminiscent 
addresses  by  those  who  recall  when  the  tracks  ran 
along  Railroad  avenue  at  Haverford  and  up 
through  Preston.  An  express  agent  will  be  bar- 
becued, and  there  will  be  dancing  and  song  and 
passing  of  the  mead  cup  until  far  into  the  night. 

The  first  surprise  the  Paoli  local  gives  one  never 
fails  to  cause  a  mild  wonder.  Just  after  leaving 
West  Philadelphia  Station  you  see  William  Penn 
looming  up  away  on  the  right.  As  you  are  con- 
vinced that  you  left  him  straight  behind,  and 
have  not  noticed  any  curve,  the  sensation  is  odd. 
At  Fifty-second  street  rise  the  shallow  green  slopes 
of  George's  Hill,  with  its  Total  Abstinence  foun- 
tain. Nearer  the  track  are  wide  tracts  of  vacant 
ground  where  some  small  boys  of  the  sort  so  de- 
lightfully limned  by  Fontaine  Fox  have  scooped 
military  dug-outs,  roofed  over  with  cast-off  sheets 
of  corrugated  iron,  very  lifelike  to  see. 

At  Overbrook  one  gets  one's  first  glimpse  of 
those  highly  civilized  suburbs.  It  is  a  gloriously 
sunny  May  afternoon.  Three  girls  are  sitting 
under  a  hedge  at  the  top  of  the  embankment  read- 
ing a  magazine.  The  little  iron  fences,  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  Main  Line,  make  their  appearance. 
A  lady  tubed  in  a  tight  skirt  totters  valiantly  down 
the  road  toward  the  station,  and  the  courteous 


122 THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 

train  waits  for  her.  If  the  director  general  of  rail- 
roads were  a  bachelor  perhaps  he  would  insert  a 
new  footnote  in  his  time-tables:  "Sk,"  will  not 
wait  for  ladies  in  hobble  skirts.  The  signal  gives 
its  blithe  little  double  chirp  and  we  are  off  again. 

Toward  Merion  we  skirt  a  brightly  sliding  little 
brook  under  willow  trees,  with  glimpses  of  daintily- 
supervised  wilderness.  It  is  all  so  trimly  artificed 
that  one  is  surprised  to  see  that  the  rubbery  stalks 
of  the  dandelion  have  evaded  the  lawn-mower  just 
as  they  do  in  less  carefully  razored  suburbs. 
Honeysuckles  sprawl  along  the  embankments, 
privet  hedges  bound  neat  gardens.  There  is  a  new 
station  at  Merion.  In  old  bucolic  days  the  Main 
Line  station  masters  lived  and  kept  house  in  the 
depots,  and  if  one  had  to  wait  for  a  train  one  could 
make  friends  with  the  station  master's  little  girl 
and  pet  cat.  But  all  those  little  girls  are  grown  up 
now  and  are  Bryn  Mawr  alumnae. 

At  Narberth  one  sees  clustered  roofs  embow- 
ered in  trees,  in  the  hollow  below  the  railway,  and 
a  snatch  of  plowed  land.  Now  one  is  really  in  the 
country.  Narberth,  Wynnewood,  Ardmore,  Hav- 
erford — so  it  runs,  like  a  chapter  of  begats.  At 
Wynnewood,  if  you  are  sitting  on  the  right,  you 
see  an  alluring  vista  of  a  long  alley  through  sun- 
speckled  greenery.  The  baggage  agent  has  nailed 
an  old  chair  seat  to  a  little  wooden  box  which 
provides  a  meditating  throne  for  such  small  leisure 
as  a  Main  Line  baggage  agent  gets.  Ardmore — 
strange  to  think  that  it  used  to  call  itself  Athens- 


THE  PAOLI  LOCAL 123 

ville — doesn't  quite  know  whether  it  is  a  suburb 
or  a  city.  Clumps  of  iris  look  upon  busy  freight 
yards;  back  gardens  with  fluttering  Monday  linen 
face  upon  a  factory  and  a  gas  tank.  And  then,  in 
a  flash,  one  is  at  Haverford,  the  goal  of  pilgrimage. 

Haverford  is  changed  as  little  as  any  of  the 
suburbs  since  the  days  when  one  knew  it  by  heart. 
Yet  Mr.  Harbaugh  has  moved  his  pharmacy  to  a 
new  building  and  it  can  never  be  quite  the  same! 
The  old  stuffed  owl  sits  bravely  in  the  new  win- 
dow, but  the  familiar  drug-scented  haunt  where 
we  drank  our  first  soda  and  bought  our  first  to- 
bacco is  empty  and  forlorn.  But  the  deep  butter- 
cup meadow  by  the  Lancaster  pike  is  still  broad 
and  green,  with  the  same  fawn-colored  velvety 
cow  grazing. 

And  there  is  one  thing  that  they  can  never 
change:  the  smell  of  the  Haverford  lawns  in 
May,  when  the  grass  is  being  mowed.  A  dazzling 
pervasion  of  sunlight  loiters  over  those  gentle 
slopes,  draws  up  the  breath  of  the  grass,  blue 
space  is  rich  with  its  balmy  savor.  Under  the 
arches  of  the  old  maples  are  the  white  figures  of 
the  cricketers.  In  the  memorial  garden  behind 
the  library  the  blue  phlox  is  out  in  pale  masses. 
The  archway  of  the  beech  hedge  looks  down  on 
the  huge  prostrate  mock-orange  tree.  Under  the 
hemlocks  (I  hope  they're  hemlocks)  by  the  obser- 
vatory is  that  curious  soft,  dry,  bleached  grass 
which  is  so  perfect  to  lie  on  with  a  book  and  not 
read  it.  And  here  comes  Harry  Carter  careering 


124 MARKET  STREET 

over  the  lawns  with  his  gasoline  mowing  machine. 
Everything  is  the  same  at  heart.  And  that  is  why 
it's  the  perfect  pilgrimage,  the  loveliest  spot  on 
earth,  then,  now  and  forever! 


MARKET  STREET 

AS     CERTAIN     EMINENT    TRAVELERS     MIGHT     HAVE 
DESCRIBED  IT 

I.  EDGAR  ALLAN  FOB 

DURING  the  whole  of  a  dull  and  oppressive 
afternoon,  when  the  very  buildings  that  loomed 
about  me  seemed  to  lean  forward  threateningly  as 
if  to  crush  me  with  their  stony  mass,  I  had  been 
traveling  in  fitful  jerks  in  a  Market  street  trolley; 
and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  sullen  shade  of 
evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy 
tower  of  the  City  Hall.  I  know  not  how  it  was — 
but,  with  the  first  glimpse  of  the  building  a  sense 
of  insufferable  gloom  pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say 
insufferable,  for  the  feeling  was  unrelieved  by  any 
of  that  half-pleasurable  sentiment  with  which  the 
mind  usually  receives  even  the  sternest  images  of 
the  desolate  or  terrible.  I  looked  upon  the  simple 
visages  of  the  policemen  on  guard  in  the  court- 
yard— upon  the  throng  of  suburban  humanity 
pressing  in  mournful  agitation  toward  their 
solemn  hour  of  trial — upon  a  deserted  litter  of 
planks  left  by  the  heedless  hand  of  the  subway 
contractor — and  an  icy  anguish  seized  upon  my 


MARKET  STREET 125 

spirit.  What  was  it — I  paused  to  think — what 
was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  City  Hall?  Was  it  the  knowledge  that  any 
one  of  these  bluecoats  could,  with  a  mere  motion 
of  his  hand,  consign  me  to  some  terrible  dungeon 
within  those  iron  walls — or  the  thought  that  in 
this  vast  and  pitiless  pile  sat  men  who  held  the 
destiny  of  my  fellow  citizens  in  their  hands — or 
the  knowledge  that  time  was  flying  and  I  was  in 
imminent  peril  of  missing  my  train?  It  was  a 
mystery  all  insoluble,  and  I  mused  in  shadowy 
fancy,  caught  in  a  web  of  ghastly  surmise. 

At  last  I  raised  my  head,  breaking  away  from 
these  unanalyzed  forebodings.  I  gazed  upward 
where  the  last  fire  of  the  setting  sun  tinged  the 
summit  with  a  gruesome  glow — 0  horror  more 
than  mortal ! — O  fearful  sight  that  drove  the  blood 
in  torrents  on  my  heart — God  shield  and  guard  me 
from  the  arch-fiend,  I  shrieked — had  William  Perm 
gone  Bolshevist?  For  they  had  painted  the  base 
of  his  statue — a  glaring,  bloodlike  red! 

II.  HENRY  JAMBS 

THORNCLIFF  was  thinking,  as  he  crossed  the,  to 
him,  intolerably  interwoven  confusion  of  Market 
street,  that  he  had  never — unless  it  was  once  in  a 
dream  which  he  strangely  associated  in  memory 
with  an  overplus  of  antipasto — never  consciously, 
that  is,  threaded  his  way  through  so  baffling  a 
predicament  of  traffic,  and  it  was  not  until  halted, 
somewhat  summarily,  though  yet  kindly,  by  a 


126 MARKET  STREET 

blue  arm  which  he  after  some  scrutiny  assessed  as 
belonging  to  a  traffic  patrolman,  that  he  bethought 
himself  sufficiently  to  inquire,  in  a  manner  a  little 
breathless  still,  though  understood  at  once  by  the 
kindly  envoy  of  order  as  the  natural  mood  of  one 
inextricably  tangled  in  mind  and  not  yet  wholly 
untangled  in  body,  but  still  intact  when  the  pro- 
pulsive energy  of  the  motortruck  had  been,  by  a 
rapid  shift  of  gears  and  actuating  machinery, 
transformed  to  a  rearward  movement,  where  he 
might  be  and  how. 

"This  is  Market  street,"  said  the  officer. 

"Market  street?  Ah,  thank  you." 

Market  street!  Could  it  be,  indeed?  His  last 
conscious  impression  had  been  of  some  shop — a 
milliner's,  perhaps? — on,  probably,  Walnut  street 
where  he  had  been  gazing  with  mild  reproach  at 
the  price  tickets  upon  the  hats  displayed,  or,  if 
not  displayed,  a  term  implying  a  rather  crude  con- 
cession to  commercialism,  at  least  exhibited,  and 
considering  whether  or  not  it  would  be  advisable, 
on  so  hot  a  day  or  a  day  that  had  every  promise 
of  becoming  hot  unless  those  purple  clouds  that 
hung  over  the  ferries  should  liquidate  into  some- 
thing not  unlike  a  thunder  shower,  to  carry  with 
him  a  small  hat  as  an  act  of  propitiation  and  re- 
concilement with  Mrs.  Thorncliff.  So  this  was 
Market  street.  He  gazed  with  friendly  interest  into 
the  face  of  the  policeman,  a  gaze  in  which  there 
was  not  the  slightest  sign  of  any  animating  rebuke 
at  the  interruption  in  his  meditation,  a  meditation 


MARKET  STREET  127 

which,  after  all,  had  been  unconscious  rather  than 
actively  cerebrated  and  with  some  vague  intention 
of  inquiring  ultimately  whether  it  were  safe,  now 
and  here,  to  cross  the  highway  or  whether  it  would 
be  better  to  wait  until  the  semaphore  (which,  as 
he  had  just  noticed,  was  turned  to  STOP)  gave 
him  undoubted  privilege  to  pass  unhindered,  re- 
marked again,  but  without  malicious  motive, 
which  indeed  would  have  been  foreign  to  his  mood 
and  purpose:  " Market  street?  How  interesting." 

III.  WALT  WHITMAN 

I  SEE  the  long  defile  of  Market  street, 

And  the  young  libertad  offering  to  shine  my  shoes 

(I  do  not  have  my  shoes  shined,  for  am  I  not  as 

worthy  without  them  shined?  I  put  it  to  you, 

Camerado.) 
And  I  see  the  maidens  and  young  men  flocking 

into  the  movies. 
And  I  promulge  this  doctrine,  that  the  government 

might  have  imposed  twice  as  heavy  a  tax  on 

amusements,  and  still  young  men  and  maidens 

would  throng  to  the  movies, 
(0  endless  timidity  of  statesmen) 
And  I  wonder  whether  I,  too,  will  go  in  and  give 

the  eidolons  the  once  over, 
But  putting  my  hand  in  my  pocket  I  see  that  I 

have  only  thirteen  cents 
And  it  will  cost  me  three  cents  to  get  back  to 

Camden. 
In  a  window  I  see  a  white-coated  savan  cooking 

griddle  cakes, 

And  I  think  to  myself,  I  am  no  better  than  he  is, 
And  he  is  no  better  than  I  am, 


128 MARKET  STREET 

And  no  one  is  any  better  than  any  one  else 

(0  the  dignity  of  labor, 

Particularly  the  labor  that  is  done  by  other  people ; 

Let  other  people  do  the  work,  is  my  manifesto, 

Leave  me  to  muse  about  it) 

Work  is  a  wonderful  thing,  and  a  steady  job  is  a 

wonderful  thing, 

And  the  pay  envelope  is  a  wonderful  institution, 
And  I  love  to  meditate  on  all  the  work  that  there 

is  to  be  done, 

And  how  other  people  are  doing  it. 
Reader,  whether  in  Kanada  or  Konshohocken, 
I  strike  up  for  you. 
This  is  my  song  for  you,  and  a  good  song,  I'll 

say  so. 

IV.  KARL  BAEDEKER 

*  *  *  MARKET  STREET  (Marktstrasse) .  Issu- 
ing from  the  majestic  terminus  of  the  Camden 
ferries  the  traveler  will  behold  the  long  prospect  of 
Market  street,  ending  with  the  imposing  tower 
(548  feet)  which  was  until  the  recent  rise  in  prices 
the  highest  thing  in  Philadelphia.  On  the  summit 
of  the  tower  will  be  observed  the  colossal  statue  of 
William  Penn,  said  to  be  of  German  extraction 
(1644-1718).  The  Market  street  is  the  business 
center  of  Philadelphia.  A  curious  phenomenon, 
exhibiting  the  perspicacious  shrewdness  of  the  na- 
tives of  this  great  city,  may  be  observed  on  any 
warm  day  about  noon:  the  natives  keep  to  the 
shady  side  of  the  street.  As  the  thoroughfare  runs 
due  east  and  west,  a  brief  astronomical  calculation 
will  show  this  to  be  the  southern  side  of  the  way. 


TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK   129 

Between  October  and  April,  however,  it  is  quite 
safe  to  walk  at  a  leisurely  pace  on  the  sunny  side. 
By  all  means  observe  the  great  number  of  places 
where  soft  drinks  may  be  obtained,  characteristic 
of  the  American  sweet  tooth,  but  expensive  (war 
tax,  one  cent  per  ten  cents  or  fraction  thereof). 
The  dignified  edifice  at  the  corner  of  Ninth  street 
is  the  federal  building,  often  carelessly  spoken 
of  as  the  postoffice.  An  entertaining  experiment, 
often  tried  by  visitors,  is  that  of  mailing  a  letter 
here.  (See  note  on  Albert  Sidney  Burleson,  else- 
where in  this  edition.)  The  visitor  who  wishes 
to  make  a  thorough  tour  of  Market  street  may 
cover  the  ground  between  the  river  (Delaware,  a 
large  sluggish  stream,  inferior  to  the  Rhine)  and 
the  City  Hall  in  an  hour,  unless  he  takes  the  sub- 
way. (Allow  \Yi  hrs.) 


TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK 
YESTERDAY  afternoon  the  American  Press 
Humorists  visited  League  Island.  When  the  party 
boarded  a  Fifteenth  street  car  I  was  greatly  ex- 
cited to  see  a  lady  sitting  with  a  large  market 
basket  in  her  lap  and  placidly  reading  The  Amaz- 
ing Marriage.  "You  see,"  I  said  to  Ted  Robin- 
son, the  delightful  poet  from  Cleveland,  "we  have 
a  genuine  culture  in  Philadelphia.  Our  citizens 
read  Meredith  on  the  trolleys  as  they  return  from 
shopping."  "That's  nothing,"  said  Ted,  "I  al- 
ways read  Meredith  on  the  cars  at  home.  I've 


130  TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK 

often  read  the  greater  part  of  a  Meredith  novel  on 
my  way  to  the  office  in  the  morning."  So  perhaps 
the  Cleveland  transits  aren't  any  more  rapid  than 
our  own. 

The  rain  came  down  in  whirling  silver  sheets  as 
we  crossed  the  flats  toward  League  Island,  but 
after  a  short  wait  at  the  end  of  the  car  line  the 
downfall  slackened.  Under  the  guidance  of  three 
courteous  warrant  officers  we  were  piloted  about 
the  navy  yard. 

Nothing  is  ever  so  thrilling  as  a  place  where 
ships  are  gathered,  and  the  adventurousness  of  a 
trip  to  the  navy  yard  begins  as  soon  as  one  steps 
off  the  car  and  finds  great  gray  hulls  almost  at 
one's  side.  It  seems  odd  to  see  them  there,  appar- 
ently so  far  inland,  their  tall  stacks  rising  up 
among  the  trees.  The  Massachusetts  and  the  Iowa 
were  the  first  we  passed,  and  we  were  all  prepared 
to  admire  them  heartily  until  told  by  our  naval 
convoy  that  they  are  "obsolete."  Passing  by  a 
pack  of  lean  destroyers,  leashed  up  like  a  kennel 
of  hounds,  we  gazed -at  the  gray  profile  of  the 
Nevada.  The  steep  chains  perpending  from  her 
undercut  prow  we  were  told  were  for  the  use  of 
the  paravanes,  and  I  think  the  ladies  of  the  party 
were  pleased  not  to  be  paravanes.  The  older 
destroyers — such  as  the  Wainwright — are  very 
small  compared  with  the  newer  models;  but  it  is 
curious  that  the  outmoded  types  of  battleship 
appear  to  the  civilian  eye  more  massive  and  tower- 
ing than  the  latest  superdreadnoughts.  The  Ohio, 


TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK   131 

the  Connecticut,  the  New  Hampshire,  all  older 
vessels,  loomed  out  of  the  water  like  cliffs  of  stone; 
their  two  and  three  high  funnels  out-topping  the 
squat  single  stack  of  the  new  oil-burners. 

The  word  submarine  has  become  a  commonplace 
of  our  daily  life,  but  there  is  always  a  tingle  of 
excitement  on  seeing  these  strange  human  fishes. 
The  0-16,  one  of  the  American  undersea  craft  that 
operated  from  the  Azores  base  during  the  war,  was 
lying  awash  at  her  pier.  I  would  have  given  much 
to  go  aboard,  but  as  the  officer  guiding  us  said, 
"It  pretty  nearly  takes  an  act  of  Congress  to  get 
a  civilian  aboard  a  submarine." 

In  a  vast  dry-dock,  like  small  minnows  gasping 
for  breath  in  a  waterless  hollow,  lay  four  diminu- 
tive  submarines  of  the  K  type.  Men  were  hosing 
them  with  water,  as  though  to  revive  them.  Their 
red  plates  made  them  look  absurdly  like  goldfish; 
the  diving  rudders,  like  a  fish's  tail,  and  the  little 
fins  folded  pathetically  upon  their  sides  toward 
the  bow,  increased  the  likeness.  Their  periscopes 
were  stripped  off,  and  through  openings  in  the  hull 
workmen  were  clambering  inside.  One  tried  to 
imagine  what  the  interior  of  these  queer  craft 
might  be  like.  Of  all  the  engines  of  man 'they  are 
the  most  mysterious  to  the  layman.  Their  little 
brass  propellers  seemed  incongruously  small  to 
drive  them  through  the  water.  At  their  noses  we 
could  see  the  revolving  tubes  to  hold  the  four 
torpedoes. 

We  passed,  alas  too  fast,  the  great  air-craft 


132  TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK 

factory,  with  its  delicious  glimpses  of  clean  and 
delicate  carpentry,  the  steamboxes  for  bending 
the  narrow  strips  of  wood,  the  sweet  smell  of 
banana  oil  which  I  suppose  is  used  in  some  var- 
nishing process.  A  little  engine  came  trundling 
out  of  a  shed,  pulling  a  shining  gray  fuselage  on  a 
flat-car.  Its  graceful  lines,  its  sensitive  and  shin- 
ing metal  work,  its  sleek,  clean  body,  all  were  as 
beautiful  and  tender  as  the  works  of  a  watch. 
Overhead  roared  an  older  brother,  a  flying  hydro- 
plane with  tremendous  sweep  of  wing,  singing  that 
deep  hum  of  unbelievable  motor  power. 

In  the  recreation  hall  we  stopped  for  orange 
soda  and  salted  peanuts.  Sailors  in  white  ducks 
were  playing  pool.  The  sailor  soda-tender  passed 
out  his  iced  bottles  from  a  huge  chest  under  the 
counter.  In  the  old  days  of  naval  tradition  one 
doubts  whether  a  sailors'  bar  would  have  been  a 
place,  where  a  party  including  ladies  and  children 
could  have  tarried  with  such  satisfaction.  In  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  building  next  door  marines  in  their 
coffee-and-milk  uniforms  were  writing  letters;  a 
band  was  tuning  up  some  jazz  in  preparation  for 
a  theatrical  show;  a  copy  of  Soldiers  Three  lay  on 
a  table.  Oilskins  lying  along  the  benches  gave  a 
nautical  touch.  There  was  something  character- 
istically American  about  the  sharp,  humorous, 
nonchalant  features  of  the  men.  Everywhere  one 
saw  sturdy,  swing-strided  marines  whose  shoulders 
would  have  thrilled  a  football  coach. 

At  one  of  the  wharves  along  the  Delaware  side 


TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK   133 

was  the  new  destroyer  Tattnall,  just  taking  on  her 
equipment — coils  of  yellow,  creaky  rope;  fenders, 
cases  of  electric  bulbs,  galvanized  buckets,  cases 
of  heavy  sea  boots.  It  was  a  tale  of  adventure 
just  to  study  her  lean,  crisp,  flaring  bow  with  its 
concave  curves,  her  four  slender  funnels,  her  tall 
glass-screened  bridge,  the  stern  ward  slant  of  her 
hull.  Even  in  the  mild  swell  and  swing  of  Dela- 
ware water  she  rode  daintily  as  a  yacht,  lifted  and 
caressed  by  the  flow  and  wash  of  the  water.  How 
she  must  leap  and  sway  in  the  full  tumble  of  open 
seas.  She  seemed  an  adorable  toy.  Who  would 
not  go  to  war,  with  such  delicious  playthings  to 
covet  and  care  for!  And  beside  her  on  the  pier, 
lay  a  clumsier  and  grimmer-seeming  engine. 
Three  great  gun-mounts  for  Admiral  Plunkett's 
naval  railroad  battery,  that  carried  the  fourteen- 
inch  guns  that  dropped  shells  into  Metz  from 
twenty-eight  miles  away.  On  one  of  these  huge 
steel  caissons  I  saw  that  some  member  of  the 
A.  E.  F.  had  scratched  his  doleful  message:  George 
W.  Moller,  a  soldier  of  St.  Nazaire,  France,  who 
wishes  to  go  home  toot  sweet. 

The  lively  little  tug  Betty  curtsied  up  to  the 
pier  and  took  us  on  board.  Harry  Jones,  her 
friendly  skipper,  steamed  us  down  past  the  green 
mounds  of  old  Fort  Mifflin,  past  the  long  tangle 
of  Hog  Island's  shipways  and  the  wet-basins  where 
the  Scantic,  the  Pipestone  County  and  other  of  Hog 
Island's  prides  were  lying,  one  of  them  kicking  up 
a  white  smother  with  her  propeller  in  some  engine 


134   TO  LEAGUE  ISLAND  AND  BACK 

test.  Then  we  turned  upstream.  It  had  been  rain- 
ing on  and  off  all  afternoon.  From  the  Jersey  shore 
came  the  delicious  haunting  smell  of  warm,  wet 
pinewoods,  of  moist  tree-trunks  and  the  clean 
whiff  of  sandy  soil  and  drenched  clover  fields. 

Our  Humorist  visitors  admitted  that  they  had 
never  realized  that  Philadelphia  is  a  seaport.  The 
brave  array  of  shipping  as  we  came  up  the  river 
was  an  interesting  sight.  Among  several  large 
Dutch  steamers  lying  in  the  stream  below  Kaighn's 
Point  I  noticed  the  Remscheid,  which  bore  on  her 
side  in  large  white  letters  the  inscription : 

WAFFENSTILLSTAND — ARMISTICE 

Waffenstillstand  is  the  German  for  armistice. 
This  struck  me  as  particularly  significant.  Prob- 
ably the  cautious  Dutch  owner  of  the  Remscheid, 
sending  his  ship  to  sea  soon  after  November  11, 
feared  there  might  still  be  U-boats  at  large  that 
had  not  learned  of  the  truce  and  would  not  respect 
a  neutral  flag. 

Among  other  ships  we  noticed  the  Edgemoor 
and  Westfield,  of  Seattle,  the  four-masted  schooner 
Charles  S.  Stanford  of  Bangor,  the  Naimes  of  Lon- 
don, the  Meiningen  of  Brest,  the  Perseveranza  of 
Trieste,  and  Iskra  of  Dubrovnik  (which  W.  M. 
explains  to  me  is  the  Slavic  name  for  Ragusa). 
Thus,  in  the  n|ames  on  the  sterns  along  Philadel- 
phia piers  one  reads  echoes  of  the  war.  And  most 
appealing  of  all  the  ships  we  passed  was  the  little 
white  Danish  bark  Valdivia,  just  such  a  craft  as 


THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL     135 

used  to  be  commanded  by  the  best-known  sea 
captain  of  modern  years,  Joseph  Conrad. 

It  must  be  a  brave  life  to  be  a  tugboat  skipper. 
To  con  the  Betty  up  the  shining  reaches  of  the 
Delaware  in  a  summer  dusk,  the  soft  flow  of  air 
keeping  one's  pipe  in  a  glow,  that  good  musk  of 
the  Jersey  pines  tingling  in  the  nostril.  Then  to 
turn  over  the  wheel  to  the  mate  while  one  goes 
below  to  tackle  a  tugboat  supper,  with  plenty  of 
dripping  steak  and  fried  murphies  and  coffee  with 
condensed  milk.  And  a  tugboat  crew  sleep  at 
home  o'  nights,  too.  Think  of  it — a  sailor  all  day 
long,  and  yet  sleep  in  your  own  bed  at  home! 


THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL 
YESTERDAY — Memorial  Day — was  a  true  Walt 
Whitman  day.  The  ferries  thronged  with  cheerful 
people,  the  laughing,  eager  throng  at  the  Camden 
terminal,  piling  aboard  trolley  cars  for  a  holiday 
outing — the  clang  and  thud  of  marching  bands, 
the  flags  and  flowers  and  genial  human  bustle,  per- 
vaded now  and  then  by  that  note  of  tribute  to  the 
final  mystery — surely  all  this  was  just  such  a  scene 
as  Walt  loved  to  watch  and  ponder.  And  going  on 
pilgrimage  with  two  English  editors  to  Mickle 
street  and  Harleigh  Cemetery,  it  was  not  strange 
that  our  thoughts  were  largely  with  the  man  whose 
hundredth  birthday  we  bear  in  mind  today. 

By  just  so  far  (it  seems  to  me)  as  we  find  it 
painful  to  read  Walt  Whitman,  by  just  so  far  we 


136     THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL 

may  reckon  our  divergence  from  the  right  path  of 
human  happiness.  If  it  perturbs  us  to  read  his 
jottings  of  "specimen  days"  along  Timber  creek, 
wrestling  with  his  twelve-foot  oak  sapling  to  gain 
strength,  sluicing  in  clear  water  and  scouring  his 
naked  limbs  with  his  favorite  flesh-brush,  rumi- 
nating in  blest  solitude  among  the  tints  of  sunset, 
the  odor  of  mint-leaves  and  the  moving  airs  of  the 
summer  meadow — if  this  gives  us  a  twinge,  then 
it  is  probably  because  we  have  divorced  ourselves 
from  the  primitive  joyfulness  of  the  open  air.  If 
we  find  his  trumpetings  of  physical  candor  shame- 
ful or  unsavory,  perhaps  it  is  because  we  have 
not  schooled  our  thoughts  to  honest  cleanliness. 
(Though  Anne  Gilchrist's  gentle  comment  must 
not  be  forgotten:  "Perhaps  Walt  Whitman  has 
forgotten  the  truth  that  our  instincts  are  beautiful 
facts  of  nature,  as  well  as  our  bodies;  and  that 
we  have  a  strong  instinct  of  silence  about  some 
things.")  If  we  find  him  lacking  in  humor  or  think 
some  of  his  catalogues  tedious — there  are  cata- 
logues and  shortage  of  humor  even  in  some  books 
considered  sacred.  And  Whitman,  if  not  a  humor- 
ist himself,  has  been  (as  Mr.  Chesterton  would 
say)  the  cause  of  humor  in  others.  How  adorably 
he  has  lent  himself  to  parody!  But  this  by  the 
way.  The  point  is,  Whitman  is  a  true  teacher: 
first  the  thrashing,  then  the  tenderness.  No  one 
ever  found  him  exhilarating  on  the  first  reading. 
But  he  is  a  hound  of  heaven.  He  will  hunt  you 
down  and  find  you  out.  Expurgate  him  for  your- 


THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL      137 

self,  if  you  wish.  He  cannot  be  inclosed  in  a 
formula.  He  asks  you  to  draw  up  your  own 
formula  as  you  read  him.  Rest  assured,  William 
Blake  would  not  have  found  him  obscure.  "  If  you 
want  me  again,  look  for  me  under  your  bootsoles." 
Is  not  that  the  very  accent  of  Blake? 

There  is  marvelous  drama  in  Camden  for  the 
seeing  eye.  The  first  scene  is  Mickle  street,  that 
dingy,  smoke-swept  lane  of  mean  houses.  The 
visitors  from  oversea  stood  almost  aghast  when 
they  saw  the  pathetic  vista.  For  years  they  had 
dwelt  on  Whitman's  magnificent  messages  of  pride 
and  confidence : 

See,  projected  through  time, 
For  rne  an  audience  interminable. 

Perhaps  they  had  conjured  to  mind  a  clean  little 
cottage  such  as  an  English  suburb  might  offer:  a 
dainty  patch  of  wallflowers  under  the  front  door, 
a  shining  brass  knocker,  a  sideboard  of  mahogany 
with  an  etching  of  Walt  on  the  wall.  No  wonder, 
then,  that  the  deathplaceof  the  poet  with  "audi- 
ence interminable"  came  as  a  shock. 

And  yet,  one  wonders,  is  not  that  faded  box, 
with  its  flag  hanging  from  the  second  story  and 
little  Louis  Skymer's  boyish  sign  in  the  window — 
Rabbits  for  sale  cheap — and  the  backyard  littered 
with  hutches  and  the  old  nose-broken  carved  bust 
of  Walt  chucked  away  in  a  corner — is  it  not  in  a 
way  strangely  appropriate?  Would  not  Walt  al- 
most have  preferred  it  to  be  so,  with  its  humble 


138     THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL 

homeliness,  so  instinct  with  humanity,  rather  than 
a  neatly  tidied  mausoleum?  If  Walt  had  believed 
that  a  man  must  live  in  a  colonial  cot  in  a  fashion- 
able suburb  in  order  to  write  great  poetry  he  would 
not  have  been  Walt. 

The  great  matter  is  to  reveal  and  outpour  the  Godlike 
suggestions  pressing  for  birth  in  the  soul. 

And  then  it  must  be  remembered  that  Walt 
didn't  live  much  on  Mickle  street  until  he  became 
a  confirmed  invalid,  and  his  pack  of  listeners  kept 
him  talking  so  hard  he  didn't  know  where  he  was. 
He  lived  on  the  ferries,  up  and  down  Chestnut 
street,  or  (for  that  matter)  in  the  constellation 
Orion. 

The  second  scene  of  the  Camden  drama  is  at 
Harleigh  Cemetery.  Here,  among  that  sweet  city 
of  the  dead,  in  a  little  dell  where  the  rhododen- 
drons yield  their  fragrance  to  the  sun-heavy  air, 
the  massive  stone  door  stands  ajar.  A  great  mass 
of  flowers,  laid  there  by  the  English-Speaking 
Union,  was  heaped  at  the  sill.  More  instinctively 
than  in  many  a  church,  the  passer  lifts  his  hat. 

Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born? 
I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as  lucky  to  die, 
and  I  know  it. 

I  thought  of  what  a  little  girl  who  was  standing 
on  the  pavement  of  Mickle  street  had  said  to  me 
as  we  halted  in  front  of  the  Whitman  house.  "  My 
father  was  sick,  and  he  died." 

Yesterday — Memorial  Day — was  a  day  of  poig- 


THE  WHITMAN  CENTENNIAL      139 

nant  thoughts.    Walt  wrote  once  in  "Specimen 
Days": 

Somehow  I  got  thinking  today  of  young  men's  deaths — 
not  at  all  sadly  or  sentimentally,  but  gravely,  realistically, 
perhaps  a  little  artistically. 

What  a  curious  note  of  apology  there  is  in  the 
last  admission!  He  who  was  so  rarely  "artistic"! 
He  who  began  his  career  as  a  writer  of  incredibly 
mawkish  short  stories  and  doggerels,  and  rigidly 
trained  himself  to  omit  the  "stock"  touches!  Let 
us  not  try  to  speak  of  Walt,  or  of  death,  in  any 
"artistic"  vein. 

"Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me"  (Walt  said) 
"and  you  shall  possess  the  origin  of  all  poems." 
By  which  he  meant,  of  course,  you  shall  possess 
your  own  soul.  You  shall  grasp  with  sureness  and 
ecstasy  the  only  fact  you  can  cling  to  in  this 
baffling  merry-go-round — the  dignity  and  worth  of 
your  own  life.  In  reading  Whitman  one  seems  to 
burst  through  the  crust  of  perversity,  artificial 
complexity  and  needless  timidity  that  afflicts  us 
all,  to  meet  a  strong  river  of  sanity  and  courage 
that  sweeps  away  the  petty  rubbish.  Because  it  is 
so  far  from  the  course  of  our  meaningless  gestures, 
we  know  instinctively  it  is  right  and  true.  There 
is  no  heart  so  bruised,  there  is  no  life  so  needlessly 
perplexed,  but  it  can  find  its  message  in  this  man. 
"I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,"  he  said.  So 
have  we  all,  for  our  little  moment.  Read  his  de- 
fiant words,  great  and  scornful  as  any  ever  penned : 


What  place  is  besieged,  and  vainly  tries  to  raise  the  siege? 
Lo,  I  send  to  that  place  a  commander,  swift,  brave,  im- 
mortal. 

And  with  him  horse  and  foot,  and  parks  of  artillery, 
And  artillerymen,  the  deadliest  that  ever  fired  gun. 

He  sends  you  your  own  soul. 

As  we  rode  back  to  Camden  on  the  trolley  one 
of  my  companions  spied  the  Washington  statue  in 
front  of  the  courthouse  (which  I  had  been  hoping 
he  would  miss).  He  smiled  at  the  General  grotes- 
quely kneeling  in  stone.  "  Only  giving  one  knee  to 
his  Maker,"  was  his  droll  comment. 

It  was  so  with  Walt.  He  wanted  to  be  quite 
sure  what  he  was  kneeling  to  before  he  gave  both 
knees. 

Perhaps  the  most  curious  (and  gruesome)  story 
in  connection  with  Whitman  comes  to  me  from 
James  Shields.  He  has  showed  me  a  monograph 
by  the  late  Dr.  E.  A.  Spitzka,  professor  of  anatomy 
at  the  Jefferson  Medical  College,  which  gives  a 
brief  review  of  scientific  post-mortem  measure- 
ments made  of  the  brains  of  130  notable  men  and 
four  women.  In  this  monograph,  reprinted  by 
the  American  Philosophical  Society  in  1907, 
occurs  the  following  paragraph: 

87.  WHITMAN,  WALT,  American  poet.  The  weight 
of  Walt  Whitman's  brain  is  variously  given  as  45.2  ounces 
(1282  grams)  and  43.3  ounces  (1228  grams).  His  stature 
was  six  feet  and  in  health  he  weighed  about  200  pounds. 
The  brain  had  been  preserved,  but  some  careless  attendant 
in  the  laboratory  let  the  jar  fall  to  the  ground;  it  is  not 
stated  whether  the  brain  was  totally  destroyed  by  the  fall, 
but  it  is  a  great  pity  that  not  even  the  fragments  of  the  brain 
were  rescued. 


ANNE  GILCHRIST'S  HOUSE        141 


ANNE  GILCHRIST'S  HOUSE 
THE  Kensington  car  that  goes  northward  on 
Seventh  street  carries  one  straightway  into  a  land 
of  adventure.  Hardly  have  you  settled  in  your 
seat  when  you  see  a  sign,  The  Pickwick  Cafe,  53 
North  Seventh  street.  Admirable  name  for  a  chop- 
house!  Glancing  about,  across  the  aisle  is  a  lady 
with  one  of  those  curious  hats  which  permit  the 
wearer  to  scrutinize  through  the  transparent  brim 
while  her  head  is  apparently  bent  demurely  down- 
ward. The  surprising  effect  of  impaling  oneself 
upon  so  unexpected  a  gaze  is  startling.  Bashfully 
one  turns  elsewhere.  On  a  hoarding  stares  a 
theatrical  sign:  "Did  You  Tell  Your  Wife  ALL 
Before  Marriage?" 

I  got  off  at  Master  street  and  walked  stolidly 
west.  It  is  a  humble  causeway  in  that  region,  rich 
in  j  unk  shops  and  a  bit  shaky  in  its  spelling.  At  the 
corner  of  Warnock  is  an  impromptu  negro  church, 
announcing  "Servers  every  Sunday,  3  p.  m." 
The  lithograph  which  is  such  a  favorite  on  South 
street,  crops  up  again:  the  famous  golden-haired 
lassie  with  a  blue  dress,  asleep  under  a  red  blanket, 
guarded  by  a  white  dog  with  a  noble,  steadfast 
expression.  Fawn  and  Camac  streets  reappear  and 
afford  quiet  vistas  of  red  brick  with  marble  trim- 
mings. I  believe  this  is  Fawn's  first  venture  north 
of  Bainbridge.  As  its  name  implies,  a  shy,  furtive 
street.  One  could  spend  a  lively  day  afoot  tracing 


142        ANNE  GILCHRISTS  HOUSE 

the  skip-stops  of  these  two  vagabonds.  Camac 
street  has  tried  to  concentrate  attention  on  itself 
between  Walnut  and  Spruce,  calling  itself  arro- 
gantly the  Greatest  Little  Street  in  the  World. 
But  it  leads  a  multiple  life.  I  have  found  it  pop- 
ping up  around  Race  street,  at  Wallace,  and  even 
north  of  that  most  poetically  named  of  all  Phila- 
delphia's thoroughfares,  Rising  Sun  avenue. 

The  greenery  of  Ontario  Park  is  likely  to  lure 
the  wayfarer  from  Master  street  for  a  detour. 
There  is  a  large  public  school  there,  and  an  ex- 
ceedingly pretty  young  teacher  in  a  pink  dress  and 
shell  spectacles  was  gravely  leading  a  procession  of 
thirty  small  urchins  for  their  morning  recess  in  the 
open  air.  Two  by  two,  with  decent  gravity,  they 
crossed  the  street,  and  demobilized  in  the  park  for 
hair  ribbons,  shoelaces  and  blouse  strings  to  be 
retied. 

As  it  approaches  Broad  street,  Master  goes 
steadily  up  grade,  both  physically  and  in  the  spirit. 
At  the  corner  of  Broad  it  reaches  its  grand  historic 
climax  in  the  vast  ornate  brown  pile  where  Edwin 
Forrest  died  in  1872.  A  tablet  says,  "This  house 
was  the  residence  of  Edwin  Forrest,  the  greatest 
tragedian  of  his  time."  It  is  interesting  to  remem- 
ber (with  the  aid  of  an  encyclopedia)  that  one  of 
Forrest's  favorite  roles  was  Spartacus.  Until  the 
arrival  of  Liebknecht  he  was  supreme  in  that  ac- 
complishment. 

At  the  top  of  the  hill,  at  Fifteenth  street,  Master 
street  becomes  almost  suburban  and  frisky.  It 


ANNE  GILCHRIST'S  HOUSE        143 

abounds  in  gracious  garden  vistas,  rubber  plants 
and  an  apartment  house  of  a  Spanish  tinge  of 
architecture.  A  patriotic  Presbyterian  church  has 
turned  its  front  lawn  into  a  potato  patch.  At  1534 
one  of  the  smallest  and  most  delightful  black  pup- 
pies ever  seen  was  tumbling  about  on  a  white 
marble  stoop.  He  was  so  young  that  his  eyes  were 
still  blue  and  cloudy,  but  his  appeal  for  a  caress 
was  unmistakable.  I  stopped  to  pay  my  respects, 
but  a  large  Airedale  appeared  and  stood  over  him 
with  an  air  of  "You  haven't  been  introduced." 

A  few  blocks  further  on  one  abuts  upon  Ridge 
avenue,  the  Sam  Brown  belt  of  Philadelphia.  In 
its  long  diagonal  course  from  Ninth  and  Vine  up 
to  Strawberry  Mansion,  Ridge  avenue  is  full  of 
unceasing  life  and  interest.  It  and  South  street 
are  perhaps  the  two  most  entertaining  of  the  city's 
humbler  highways.  Master  street  crosses  it  at  a 
dramatic  spot.  There  is  a  great  cool  lumber  yard, 
where  the  piled-up  wood  exhales  a  fragrant  breath 
under  the  hot  sun,  and  lilac-breasted  pigeons  flap 
about  among  the  stained  rafters.  A  few  yards 
away  one  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  vast  inclosure 
of  Girard  College,  where  the  big  silvery-gray  par- 
thenon  rises  austerely  above  a  cloud  of  foliage. 

One  aspect  of  Ridge  avenue  is  plain  at  a  glance. 
It  is  the  city's  stronghold  of  the  horse.  You  will 
see  more  horses  there  than  anywhere  else  I  know 
(except  perhaps  down  by  the  docks) .  From  horse- 
shoeing forges  comes  the  mellow  clang  of  beaten 
iron.  As  the  noon  whistles  blow,  scores  of  horses 


144        ANNE  GILCHRIST'S  HOUSE 

stand  at  their  wagons  along  the  curb,  cheerfully 
chewing  oats,  while  their  drivers  are  dispatching 
heavy  mugs  of  "coffee  with  plenty"  in  the  nearby 
delicatessens.  Ridge  avenue  conducts  a  heavy 
trade  in  furniture  on  the  pavements.  Its  favorite 
tobaccos  are  of  a  thundering  potency:  Blue  Hen, 
Sensation,  Polar  Bear,  Buckingham  cut  plug. 
There  is  a  primitive  robust  quality  about  its  mer- 
chandising. "Eat  Cornell's  Sauer  Kraut  and 
Grow  Fat,"  says  a  legend  painted  aross  the  flank 
of  a  pickle  factory.  "Packey  McFarland  Recom- 
mends Make-Man  Tablets,"  is  the  message  of  a 
lively  cardboard  "cutout"  in  a  druggist's  window. 
Odd  little  streets  run  off  the  avenue  at  oblique 
angles :  Sharswood,  for  instance,  where  two  horses 
stood  under  the  shade  of  a  big  tree  as  in  a  barnyard 
picture.  On  a  brick  wall  on  Beechwood  street  I 
found  the  following  chalked  up: 

CLAN  OF  THE  EAGLE'S  EYE 
Lone  Wolf 
Red  Hawk 
Arrow  fire 
Red  Thunder 
Deerfoot 

This  seemed  a  pathetic  testimony  that  not  even 
the  city  streets  can  quench  the  Fenimore  Cooper 
tradition  among  American  youth.  And,  oddly 
enough,  below  this  roster  of  braves  some  learned 
infant  had  written  in  Greek  letters,  "Harry  a  dam 
fool."  Evidently  some  challenge  to  a  rival  tribe. 


ANNE  GILCHRISTS  HOUSE         145 

Twenty-second  street  north  of  Ridge  avenue  is 
a  quiet  stretch  of  red  brick,  with  occasional  out- 
croppings  of  pale  yellow-green  stone.  At  the  noon 
hour  it  is  a  cascade  of  children,  tumbling  out  of 
the  Joseph  Singerly  Public  School.  Happily  for 
those  juveniles,  there  is  one  of  the  best  tuck  shops 
in  Philadelphia  at  the  corner  of  Columbia  avenue. 
It  is  worth  a  long  journey  to  taste  their  cinnamon 
buns.  And  in  the  block  just  behind  the  school,  at 
1929  North  Twenty-second,  there  is  a  little  three- 
story  yellow-green  house  with  a  large  bay  window, 
which  gives  Whitman  lovers  a  thrill.  That  little 
house  is  associated  with  one  of  the  most  poignant 
and  curious  romances  in  the  story  of  American 
letters.  For  it  was  here  that  Mrs.  Anne  Gilchrist 
and  her  children  came  in  September,  1876,  and 
lived  until  the  spring  of  1878.  Mrs.  Gilchrist,  a 
noble  and  talented  English  woman,  whose  hus- 
band had  died  in  1861,  fell  passionately  in  love 
with  Walt  after  reading  "Leaves  of  Grass."  Her 
letters  to  Walt,  which  were  published  recently  by 
Thomas  Harned,  are  among  the  most  searchingly 
beautiful  expressions  of  human  attachment.  After 
Whitman's  paralytic  stroke  Anne  Gilchrist  in- 
sisted on  coming  from  London  to  Philadelphia  to 
be  near  the  poet  and  help  him  in  any  way  she 
could;  and  to  this  little  house  on  Twenty-second 
street  Walt  used  to  go  day  after  day  to  take  tea 
with  her  and  her  children.  Walt  had  tried  earn- 
estly to  dissuade  her  from  coming  to  America, 
and  his  few  letters  to  her  seem  a  curiously  enig- 


146        ANNE  GILCHRIST'S  HOUSE 

matic  reply  to  her  devotion.  Perhaps,  as  Mr. 
Harned  implies,  his  heart  was  engaged  elsewhere. 
At  any  rate,  his  conduct  in  this  delicate  affair 
seems  sufficient  proof  of  what  has  sometimes  been 
doubted,  that  he  was  at  heart  a  gentleman — a 
banal  word,  but  we  have  no  other. 

The  present  occupant  of  the  house  is  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander Wellner,  who  was  kind  enough  to  grant  me  a 
few  minutes'  talk.  She  has  lived  in  the  house  only 
a  year,  and  did  not  know  of  its  Whitman  associa- 
tion. The  street  can  hardly  have  changed  much — 
save  for  the  new  public  school  building — since 
Centennial  days.  The  gardens  behind  the  houses 
are  a  mass  of  green  shrubbery,  and  in  a  neighboring 
yard  stands  an  immense  tree  in  full  leaf.  Perhaps 
Walt  and  his  good  friends  may  have  sat  out  there 
for  tea  on  warm  afternoons  forty-two  years  ago. 
But  it  seems  a  long  way  from  Camden! 

As  I  came  away,  thinking  of  that  romantic  and 
sad  episode  in  the  lives  of  two  who  were  greatly 
worthy  of  each  other,  the  corner  of  my  eye  was 
caught  by  a  large  poster.  In  a  random  flash  of 
vision  I  misread  it  in  accordance  with  my  thoughts. 
THE  GOOD  GRAY  POET,  it  seemed  to  say. 
For  an  instant  I  accepted  this  as  natural.  Then, 
returning  to  my  senses,  I  retraced  my  steps  to 
look  at  it  again.  THAT  GOOD  GULF  GASO- 
LINE! 


ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY    147 


ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY 
THERE  are  scenes  so  rich  in  color,  so  flooded 
with  sunlight,  that  the  hand  hardly  knows  how  to 
set  them  down.  They  seem  to  yearn  for  expression 
in  what  is  called  poetry,  yet  one  fears  to  submit 
them  to  the  bending  and  twisting  of  rhyme.  For 
when  one  embarks  on  the  ecstatic  search  for  words 
in  tune  with  one  another  he  may  find  bright  and 
jovial  cadences,  but  rarely  does  he  say  just  what 
was  in  his  heart.  How,  then,  may  one  order  the 
mysterious  mechanism  that  gears  brain  with  fore- 
finger so  that  the  least  possible  color  and  contour 
be  lost  in  transmission? 

The  other  day  I  rowed  up  Neshaminy  Creek. 
It  is  a  bright  little  river  seventeen  miles  or  so  from 
Philadelphia,  a  stripling  of  the  great-hearted  Dela- 
ware. Its  wooded  and  meaded  banks  are  a  favored 
pleasuring  ground  for  pavement-keeping  souls, 
who  set  up  a  tent  there  in  the  summertime  and 
cruise  those  innocent  waters  in  canoes.  It  is  a 
happy  stream,  beloved  of  picnic  parties.  Millions 
of  hard-boiled  eggs  and  ice  cream  cones  have  per- 
ished in  the  grove  above  the  dam,  and  a  long 
avenue  of  stately  poplar  trees  has  grown  up  to 
commemorate  them.  The  picnicking  point  is 
known  as  Neshaminy  Falls,  though  the  falling  is 
done  mostly  by  high-spirited  flappers  on  the  enter- 
taining toboggan  chute,  down  which  they  launch 
themselves  in  a  cheering  line.  The  river  falls 


148   ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY 

tamely  enough  over  a  small  dam;  Niagara's 
prestige  is  nowhere  menaced. 

There  is  a  kind  of  emergency  fleet  corporation 
doing  a  bustling  traffic  at  the  little  plank  landing 
stage.  The  chief  navigating  officer  was  toting  a 
roll  of  bills  larger  than  I  can  face  with  comfort. 
From  him  one  hires  a  vessel  of  sorts,  propelled  by 
bright  red  oars,  and  then  one  sets  forth  up  the 
stream.  Most  of  the  voyagers  are  content  after 
passing  the  island,  for  the  current,  though  slug- 
gish, is  persistent.  But  it  is  well  to  keep  on. 
Neshaminy  shows  her  rarest  charms  to  those  who 
woo  her  stoutly. 

Above  the  island  there  is  a  long  strip  of  thick 
woodland  on  both  banks.  The  treetops,  rising 
steeply  into  the  bright  air,  keep  tossing  and 
trembling  in  the  wind,  but  the  stream  itself  is 
entirely  still.  Along  the  bank,  where  the  great 
bleached  trunks  climb  out  of  the  water,  there 
hangs  the  peculiar  moist,  earthy,  pungent  smell 
of  a  river  that  runs  among  woods.  Every  fresh- 
water bather  must  know  that  smell.  It  has  in  it 
a  dim  taint  as  of  decay,  a  sense  of  rotting  vegeta- 
tion. Yet  it  is  a  clean  odor  and  a  cool  one.  It  is 
a  smell  particularly  dear  to  me,  for  it  recalls  to 
my  eager  nostril  the  exact  scent  of  the  old  bathing 
place  on  the  Cherwell  at  Oxford,  quaintly  known 
as  Parson's  Pleasure.  How  vividly  I  remember 
that  moist,  cool  corner  of  turf,  the  afternoon  sun- 
light stabbing  it  with  slanting  arrows  of  gold,  the 
enigmatic  old  Walt  Whitman  (called  Cox)  handing 


ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY    149 

out  damp  towels  from  his  dingy  hutch,  and  the 
clean  white  bodies  poised  against  green  willows! 
Would  it  hurt  Neshaminy's  feelings  if  I  were  to 
confess  that  the  poignance  of  its  appeal  to  me  was 
partly  due  to  its  kinship  with  the  Oxford  Cher? 

A  little  farther  up,  the  creek  has  the  good  sense 
to  throw  off  its  mantle  of  woods.  Wide  meadows 
come  to  the  water's  edge;  hills  of  a  friendly  sort 
are  folded  down  about  it,  showing  a  bare  line  of 
upland  against  the  sky.  A  clean  line  of  hill  against 
the  emptiness  of  blue  is  a  sight  that  never  tires. 
A  country  road  crosses  the  stream  on  a  flimsy 
bridge  that  leans  on  stout  old  stone  piers.  The 
road  bends  away  uphill,  among  a  wilderness  of 
blackberry  bushes,  winding  among  pastures  where 
the  cows  are  grazing.  That  is  a  good  kind  of  road  ; 
the  sort  of  road  one  associates  with  bare  feet  and 
hot  dust  sifting  between  boyish  toes. 

Above  this  bridge  the  creek  shallows.  Through 
the  clear  water  one  sees  the  bottom  humped  with 
brown  stones.  Many  of  the  larger  boulders  bear  a 
little  white  paint  stain  on  their  upward  ridges, 
showing  where  a  venturesome  excursionist  has 
bumped  one  of  the  transports  of  the  emergency 
fleet  corporation.  Dragonflies  gleam  like  winged 
scarf  pins.  Under  the  boat  flashes  the  bright  shape 
of  a  small  perch  or  sunfish.  On  the  willow  trunks 
that  lean  along  the  bank  an  occasional  fisherman 
is  watching  his  float.  The  current  moves  faster 
here,  dimpling  and  twisting  in  little  swirls.  The 
water  shines  and  glows:  it  seems  to  have  caught 


150    ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY 

whole  acres  of  living  sunlight.  Far  above  a  great 
hawk  is  lazily  slanting  and  sliding,  watching 
curiously  to  see  the  mail  plane  from  Bustleton 
that  passes  up  the  valley  every  afternoon. 

There  is  no  peace  like  that  of  a  little  river,  and 
here  it  is  at  its  best. 

At  last  we  reached  the  point  where,  if  the  boat 
is  to  go  further,  it  must  be  propelled  by  hand,  the 
pilot  walking  barefoot  in  the  stream.  Easing  her 
round  sharp  reefs,  pushing  through  swift  little 
passages  where  the  current  spurts  deeply  between 
larger  stones,  she  may  be  pushed  up  to  a  huge  tree 
trunk  lying  along  the  shore,  surrounded  by  the 
deliciously  soft  and  fluid  mud  loved  by  country 
urchins,  the  mud  that  schloops  when  one  with- 
draws the  sunken  foot.  Here,  the  world  reduced 
to  "a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade,"  one  may 
watch  the  waterbirds  tiptoeing  and  teetering  over 
the  shallows,  catch  the  tune  of  the  little  rapids 
scuffling  round  the  bend  and  eat  whatever  sand- 
wiches are  vouchsafed  by  the  Lady  of  the  White 
Hand.  High  above  treetops  and  framing  the  view 
stands  the  enormous  viaduct  of  the  Trenton  cut- 
off. A  heavy  freight  train  thundering  over  it  now 
and  then  keeps  one  in  touch  with  the  straining 
world. 

In  the  swift  sparkle  that  bickers  round  the  bend 
one  may  get  a  dip  and  a  sprawl  in  the  fashion 
that  is  in  favor  with  those  who  love  the  scour  of 
lightly  running  water  over  the  naked  flesh.  That 
corner  of  the  stream  is  remote  and  screened.  There 


ALONG  THE  GREEN  NESHAMINY    151 

is  a  little  gap  between  two  shouldery  stones  where 
the  creek  pours  itself  chuckling  and  vehement. 
The  bottom  is  grown  with  soft,  spongy  grasses 
that  are  very  pleasant  to  squat  upon.  I  presume 
that  every  man  in  the  world  takes  any  opportunity 
he  can  to  wallow  in  a  running  brook.  It  is  an  old 
tradition,  and  there  cannot  be  too  much  of  it. 

The  little  rivers  are  excellent  friends  of  man. 
They  are  brisk,  cheerful  and  full  of  quiet  corners 
of  sun.  They  are  clear  and  clean,  the  terror  of 
dark  unknown  waters  is  not  in  them.  I  have 
known  and  loved  many  such,  and  I  hope  to  make 
friends  with  more.  When  I  look  back  and  reckon 
up  the  matters  that  are  cause  for  regret  there  will 
not  stand  among  them  my  private  and  pagan 
sluice  in  the  bright  water  of  Neshaminy. 


152      PENN  TREATY  PARK 


PENN  TREATY  PARK 

DOWN  by  the  wharf  in  old  Perm  Treaty  Park 

The  trees  are  all  a  canopy  of  green — 

The  staunch  policeboat  Stokley,  ancient  craft, 

Is  purring  with  a  gentle  push  of  steam 

That  whispers  in  her  valves.    Along  the  pier 

The  water  clucks  and  sags.    Two  river  cops 

Sit  smoking  pipes  outside  their  small  caboose, 

Above  them  looms  a  tragic  rusty  bow, 

The  Roald  Amundsen,  Norwegian  tanker, 

She  that  caught  fire  last  winter  at  Point  Breeze 

While  loading  oil.    The  river  cops  will  tell  you 

How  all  the  Schuylkill  was  a  hell  of  flame 

And  ten  men  lost  their  lives.    The  good  old  Stokley 

Dredged  the  river  afterward  for  bodies. 

At  sunset  time  in  old  Penn  Treaty  Park 
The  children  sprawl  and  play :  the  tawny  light 
Pours  through  the  leafy  chinks  in  sifted  gold 
And  turns  the  middle-stream  to  level  fire. 
Then,  after  that  red  sunset  comes  the  dusk, 
The  little  park  is  steeped  in  living  shadow, 
And  Cupid  pairs  the  benches  by  the  pier. 
But  there's  one  girl  who  always  sits  alone. 
Coming  at  dark,  she  passes  by  the  shaft 
That  marks  the  treaty  ground  of  William  Penn. 
Too  dusk  for  reading,  yet  how  well  she  knows 
The  words  carved  in  the  stone:    Unbroken  Faith. 

Mary,  of  Wildey  street,  had  met  Alf  Larsen 
Up  at  a  picture  show  on  East  Girard. 
Her  father  was  a  hard  one:  he  said  fiercely 
No  girl  of  his  should  run  around  with  sailors, 


PENN  TREATY  PARK 153 

No  girl  of  his  should  play  with  bolsheviks. 
Alf  was  Norwegian,  and  a  decent  fellow, 
A  big  blond  youngster  with  a  quiet  eye; 
He  loved  the  girl,  but  old  man  Morton  swore 
All  Scandinavians  were  the  same  as  Russians, 
And  every  Russian  was  a  bolshevik. 

Mary  was  stubborn;  all  her  blood  was  willful; 
At  twilight,  by  the  old  Perm  Treaty  stone, 
She  used  to  wait  for  Alf,  or  he  for  her. 
And  in  some  whim  of  Celtic  flame  and  fancy 
The  carven  words  became  her  heart's  own  motto, 
And  there  they  pledged  their  love:     Unbroken 
Faith. 

Oh,  golden  evenings  there  along  the  river! 

When  all  the  tiny  park  was  Eden  land — 
Oh  eager  hearts  that  burn  and  leap  and  shiver, 

Oh  hand  that  mates  with  hand! 
And  they  would  cross  the  Shackamaxon  ferry, 

Or  walk  by  Cramps'  to  see  the  dry-docked  ships 
Or  in  a  darkened  movie  house  make  merry 

With  sudden  lips  on  lips — 

And  half  their  talk  was  tremulous  with  yearning, 

And  half  was  of  their  future,  shrewdly  planned — 
How  Alf  would  leave  the  sea,  and  soon  be  earning 

Not  less  than  thirty  in  a  job  on  land; 
Between  their  kisses  they  would  talk  of  saving, 

Between  their  calculations,  kiss  again, 
And  she  would  say  that  he  must  be  behaving 

While  she  described  a  house  to  rent  at  ten. 

With  Alf  at  sea,  the  girl  would  still  go  down 
To  see  the  very  bench  where  they  had  sat, 
The  tidy  Stokley  moored  beside  the  pier, 


154  PENN  TREATY  PARK 

The  friendly  vista  of  the  Camden  shore, 

The  stone  where  they  had  locked  their  hearts  in 

one. 

So  time  went  by.      The  armistice  came  on, 
And  Mary  radiant,  for  her  lad  no  more 
Would  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  submarines, 
And  he  had  heard  a  chance  to  get  a  job 
As  watchman  up  at  Cramps.    Just  one  more  voy- 
age 

He  planned;  then  he  would  quit  and  they'd  begin. 
So,  late  one  night,  in  the  familiar  park 
They  said  good-by.    It  was  their  last  good-by, 
As  Mary  said :  his  ship  was  due  to  sail 
Day  after  next,  and  he  would  have  no  chance 
To  come  again.     She  turned  beside  the  stone 
To  fix  in  view  that  place  of  happy  tryst, 
The  quiet  leafless  park  with  powdered  frost, 
The  lamps  of  the  policeboat,  red  and  green. 

The  Roald  Amundsen  was  Larsen's  ship. 

She  lay  at  the  refinery,  Point  Breeze, 

Taking  on  oil  for  Liverpool.     The  day 

She  was  to  sail,  somehow  she  caught  on  fire. 

A  petaled  rose  of  hell,  she  roared  in  flame — 

The  burning  liquid  overflowed  her  decks, 

The  dock  and  oil-scummed  river  blazing,  too. 

Her  men  had  little  chance.    They  leaped  for  life 

Into  the  river,  but  the  paraffin 

Blazing  along  the  surface,  hemmed  them  in. 

They  either  burned  or  drowned,  and  Alf  was  one. 

The  irony  of  fate  has  little  heed 

For  tenderness  of  hearts.     The  blistered  hulk, 

Burnt,  sunk  and  raised,  with  twisted,  blackened 

plates, 
A  gaunt  and  gutted  horror,  seared  and  charred, 


PENN  TREATY  PARK  155 

Was  towed  upstream,  and,  to  be  sold  for  junk, 
Was  moored  beside  the  Stokley.     Where  her  bow, 
All  scarred  and  singed  with  flame  and  red  with 

rust, 

Must  almost  overhang  the  very  bench 
Of  love  and  happy  dreams,  the  Roald  lay. 
And  Mary,  coming  down  to  that  old  haunt 
Where  all  her  bliss  and  heartbreak  were  most  near, 
Found  the  dead  ship,  approached,  and  read  the 

name. 

Well,  such  a  tale  one  cannot  tell  in  full; 
Heart's  inmost  anguish  is  the  heart's  alone. 
But  night  by  night  the  girl  is  sitting  there, 
Watching  the  profile  of  that  ship  of  death, 
Watching  the  Stokley,  and  the  kindly  men 
Who  fought  the  fire  and  grappled  in  the  ooze 
And  did  not  find  the  thing  she  hoped  and  feared. 
And  still  her  only  consolation  lies 
In  those  two  words  cut  on  the  trysting  stone, 
Unbroken  Faith.     Her  faith  unbroken  still 
She  sits  in  shadow  near  their  meeting  place: 
She  will  not  fail  him,  should  he  ever  come. 
She  watches  all  the  children  at  their  play, 
And  does  not  fear  to  dream  what  might  have  been, 
And  half  believes,  beneath  the  summer  leaves, 
To  see,  across  the  narrow  strip  of  park, 
His  ruddy  face,  blond  head  and  quiet  eyes. 
Yet  not  until  the  kindly  dusk  has  come 
And  fills  the  little  park  with  blue  that  heals 
Does  she  go  down.    She  cannot  bear  to  see 
The  sunset  sheet  the  river  o'er  with  flame. 


156  THE  INDIAN  POLE 


THE  INDIAN  POLE 

EVERY  street  has  a  soul  of  its  own.  Somewhere 
in  its  course  it  will  betray  its  secret  ideals  and  pref- 
erences. I  like  to  imagine  that  the  soul  of  Callow- 
hill  street  has  something  to  do  with  beer.  Like  a 
battered  citizen  who  has  fallen  upon  doleful  days, 
Callowhill  street  solaces  itself  with  the  amber. 

Between  Tenth  and  Fourth  streets  Callowhill 
numbers  at  least  a  dozen  pubs,  not  to  enumerate 
a  score  of  "cider  saloons."  A  soft  breath  of  hops 
seems  to  haunt  the  air,  and  the  trucks  unloading 
kegs  into  cellars  give  promise  of  quenchers  to 
come.  Generally  one  may  meet  along  those  pave- 
ments certain  rusty  brothers  who  have  obviously 
submitted  themselves  to  the  tramplings  of  the 
brewer's  great  horses,  as  Homer  Rodeheaver's  an- 
them puts  it. 

Callowhill  street,  like  so  much  of  Philadelphia's 
old  and  gentle  beauty,  is  in  a  downward  pang,  at 
any  rate  so  far  as  the  picturesque  is  concerned.  It 
is  curious  to  see  those  comely  old  dwellings,  with 
their  fluted  dormer  windows,  their  marble  facings 
and  dusty  fanlights,  standing  in  faded  dignity  and 
wistfulness  among  factories,  breweries  and  rail- 
road spurs.  Down  their  narrow  side  alleys  one 
may  catch  a  glimpse  of  greenery  (generally  the  ail- 
anthus,  that  slummish  tree  that  haunts  city  back 
yards  and  seems  to  have  such  an  affinity  for  red 
brick).  If  one  has  a  taste  for  poking  and  exploring, 


THE  INDIAN  POLE 157 

he  will  find  many  a  little  court  or  cul  de  sac  where 
hardly  a  stone  or  a  window  has  changed  for  a  hun- 
dred years.  One  does  not  need  to  travel  abroad  to 
find  red  walls  with  all  the  mellow  stain  that  one 
associates  with  Tudor  manors.  There  is  an  old 
wagon  yard  on  the  north  side  of  Callowhill,  near 
Fifth,  where  an  artist  might  trance  himself  with 
the  plain  lines  of  old  houses,  the  clear  sunlight 
falling  athwart  the  flattened  archway  and  the 
decrepit  vehicles  with  their  weary  wheels. 

It  is  a  perpetual  delight  to  wander  in  such  by- 
ways, speculating  on  the  beauty  of  those  rows  of 
houses  in  days  gone  by.  What  a  poetry  there  is  in 
the  names  of  our  streets — Nectarine,  Buttonwood, 
Appletree,  Darien,  Orianna!  Even  the  pawn- 
brokers are  romantics.  There  is  a  three-ball  estab- 
lishment on  Ninth  street  where  the  uncle  keeps  a 
great  rookery  of  pigeons  in  his  back  yard.  They 
coo  seductively  to  embarrassed  wanderers.  I  can 
hardly  keep  my  watch  in  my  pocket  when  I  hear 
their  soft  suggestions.  What  a  city  of  sober  dig- 
nity and  clean  comfort  Philadelphia  must  have 
been  in  the  forties — say  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James 
Russell  Lowell  came  to  the  northeast  corner  of 
Fourth  and  Arch  on  their  honeymoon,  in  1845. 
"My  cheeks  are  grown  so  preposterously  red," 
wrote  Lowrell,  "that  I  look  as  if  I  had  rubbed  them 
against  all  the  brick  walls  in  the  city." 

As  I  turned  off  Callowhill  street,  at  the  oblique 
junction  of  York  avenue,  leaving  behind  the 
castellated  turrets  of  a  huge  brewery,  I  came  upon 


158 THE  INDIAN  POLE 

an  interesting  sight.  Where  Wood  street  cuts 
York  avenue  and  Fourth  street  there  stands  a  tall 
white  flagpole,  surmounted  by  an  enormous 
weather-vane  representing  an  Indian  with  bow  and 
quiver,  holding  one  arm  outstretched.  At  its  foot 
stands  an  iron  drinking  fountain  of  the  S.  P.  C.  A., 
dated  1868,  and  on  the  other  side  another  water 
basin  (now  dry)  with  a  white  marble  slab  behind 
it.  I  thought  that  this  might  offer  some  inscrip- 
tion, but  it  is  pasted  over  with  a  dodger  commend- 
ing "The  coolest  theatre  in  town."  The  Indian 
figure  engaged  my  curiosity  and  I  made  for  a  near- 
by tobacconist  to  inquire.  (I  always  find  to- 
bacconists genial  people  to  supply  information.) 
He  referred  me  to  Mr.  William  Renner,  the  maker 
of  flags  and  awnings  round  the  corner  at  403  Vine 
street,  and  from  Mr.  Renner  I  learned  many  things 
of  interest. 

Startling  pleasures  accrue  to  the  wanderer  who 
starts  upon  his  rambles  in  total  ignorance  of  what 
he  is  going  to  find.  Let  me  frankly  confess  that  I 
know  nothing  of  the  history  and  topography  of 
Philadelphia;  I  am  learning  it  as  I  go.  Therefore 
when  I  discover  things  they  give  me  the  vivid  de- 
light of  a  totally  fresh  experience.  The  Indian 
Pole,  as  it  is  called,  may  be  an  old  story  to  many 
citizens;  to  me  it  was  entirely  new. 

Mr.  Renner,  who  has  taken  the  landmark  under 
his  personal  protection,  tells  me  that  the  weather- 
vane  was  erected  many  years  ago  to  commemorate 
the  last  Indian  "powwow"  held  in  Philadelphia, 


THE  INDIAN'  POLE 159 

and  also  that  it  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  starting 
place  for  the  New  York  stage  coaches.  However 
that  may  be,  at  any  rate  the  original  pole  was  re- 
placed or  repaired  in  1835,  and  at  that  time  a  sheet 
of  lead  (now  kept  by  the  Historical  Society)  was 
placed  at  the  top  of  the  pole  bearing  the  names  of 
those  who  had  been  instrumental  in  the  restora- 
tion. The  work  was  done  at  the  expense  of  the 
"United  States"  Fire  Engine  Company,  that 
being  the  day  of  the  old  volunteer  fire  depart- 
ments. 

Apparently  the  Indian  Pole  became  a  kind  of 
rallying  point  for  rival  fire  engine  companies,  and 
there  was  much  jealous  competition,  when  steam 
fire  apparatus  was  introduced,  to  see  which  com- 
pany could  first  project  a  stream  of  water  over  the 
top  of  the  staff.  This  rivalry  was  often  accom- 
panied by  serious  brawls,  for  Mr.  Renner  tells  me 
that  when  the  Indian  figure  was  repaired  recently 
it  was  found  to  be  riddled  with  bullet  holes.  This 
neighborhood  has  been  the  scene  of  some  dan- 
gerous fighting,  for  St.  Augustine's  Church,  which 
was  destroyed  in  the  riots  of  1844,  stands  only  a 
few  yards  away  down  Fourth  street. 

In  1894  the  pole  again  became  dangerous,  not  as 
a  brawling  point,  but  on  account  of  age.  It  was 
removed  by  the  city,  but  at  the  instance  of  Mr. 
Howard  B.  French,  of  Samuel  H.  French  &  Com- 
pany, the  paint  manufacturers  on  Callowhill 
street,  the  Indian  figure  and  the  ball  on  which  it 
revolved  were  kept  and  a  new  pole  was  erected  by 


160  THE  INDIAN  POLE 

Mr.  French  and  four  other  merchants  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, T.  Morris  Perot,  Edward  H.  Ogden,  John 
C.  Croxton  and  William  Renner  (the  father  of  the 
present  Mr.  Renner).  That  pole,  which  is  still 
standing,  is  eighty-five  feet  from  ground  to  truck. 
The  Indian  figure  is  nine  and  one-half  feet  high; 
it  stretches  nine  feet  from  the  rear  end  of  the  bow 
to  the  outstretched  hand.  The  copper  ball  be- 
neath it  is  sixteen  inches  in  diameter.  Mr.  Renner 
says  the  figure  is  of  wood,  several  inches  thick,  and 
sheathed  in  iron.  He  thinks  that  the  hand  alone 
would  weigh  150  pounds.  He  thinks  it  quite  re- 
markable that  though  many  church  steeples  in  the 
neighborhood  have  been  struck  by  lightning  the 
Indian  has  been  unscathed.  On  holidays  Mr. 
Renner  runs  up  a  large  flag  on  the  pole,  twenty- 
one  by  thirty-six  feet. 

When  I  remarked  that  this  was  a  pretty  big  flag 
I  touched  Mr.  Renner  in  a  tender  spot.  Probably 
there  is  no  man  who  knows  more  about  big  flags 
than  he,  for  he  told  me  that  in  1911  he  had  made 
in  his  workroom  on  Vine  street  a  Stars  and  Stripes 
which  is  supposed  to  be  the  largest  flag  ever 
made.  It  measured  75  by  150  feet.  It  was  flown 
in  Chestnut  Hill  Park  that  summer  and  the  next 
year  was  hung  in  a  park  in  Bridgeport,  Conn.  It 
was  hung  on  a  wire  cable  between  two  masts, 
each  125  feet  high  and  780  feet  apart.  Mr.  Renner 
was  to  have  taken  it  to  Panama  to  be  exhibited 
there  when  the  canal  was  opened,  but  unfortu- 
nately it  was  damaged  in  a  fire  in  Bridgeport. 


THE  INDIAN  POLE  161 

What  has  become  of  it  since  he  does  not  know. 
The  flag  was  made  of  standard  wool  bunting  and 
weighed  half  a  ton.  It  was  sold  for  $2500. 

We  are  not  thought  to  be  very  sentimental 
about  our  flag,  but  Mr.  Renner  tells  me  that  a  few 
years  ago,  when  he  was  hoisting  a  very  large  flag 
at  Chestnut  Hill  Park,  he  had  an  amusing  experi- 
ence which  sounds  more  Parisian  than  Philadel- 
phian.  He  had  been  sitting  in  a  "bosun's  chair" 
at  the  top  of  the  staff  while  the  flag  was  pulled  up 
and  his  face  was  black  with  soot  from  the  smoke 
of  the  nearby  scenic  railway.  Descending  from  the 
pole  he  was  leaning  against  a  pavilion  looking  up 
at  the  flag,  when  an  old  lady  who  had  been  watch- 
ing rushed  up,  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
embraced  him.  Mr.  Renner  still  blushes  modestly 
when  he  recalls  the  ordeal. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  for  any  community  to  have 
some  relic  or  trophy  of  its  own  that  fosters  local 
pride.  Those  who  live  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Fourth  and  Callowhill  streets  are  proud  of  the 
Indian  Pole,  which  the  city  once  consigned  to  the 
dump  heap,  but  which  they  rescued  and  have 
cherished  as  an  interesting  landmark.  And  there 
are  other  matters  thereabout  to  invite  imagina- 
tion :  The  bright  blue  laboratory  of  a  certain  dan- 
druff nostrum ;  inns  named  "The  Tiger "  and  " The 
Sorrel  Horse,"  and  a  very  curious  flatiron-shaped 
house  that  stands  just  behind  the  flagstaff. 

I  thought  the  Indian  Pole  was  quite  an  adven- 
ture for  one  morning,  but  at  Fifth  and  Arch  I  met 


162          CLAUD  JOSEPH  WARLOW 

another.    Passing  the  grave  of  Ben  and  Deborah 
Franklin  I  noticed  that  it  was  being  swept. 

"Do  you  do  that  every  day?"  I  asked  the  sex- 
ton. 

"  Every  day,"  he  said.  "  I  like  to  keep  it  clean." 
I  think  that  Deborah,  who  was  a  good  house- 
wife, would  be  glad  to  know  that  her  plain  Quaker- 
ish tombstone  is  dusted  every  day.  The  good  man 
who  does  it  is  Jacob  Schweiger  and  he  lives  at  221 
Noble  street. 


CLAUD  JOSEPH  WARLOW 

SOME  days  ago  we  were  passing  the  new  office  of 
the  Philadelphia  Electric  Company  at  Tenth  and 
Chestnut  streets,  when  our  eye  was  caught, 
through  the  broad  plate-glass  windows,  by  a 
shimmer  of  blue  at  the  back  of  the  store.  Being  of 
a  curious  disposition,  we  pushed  through  the  re- 
volving doors  to  investigate. 

On  the  rear  wall  of  the  office  we  found  a  beau- 
tiful painting  representing  Philadelphia  seen  from 
above  in  the  twilight  of  a  snowy  winter  evening. 
It  is  a  large  canvas,  about  twenty-five  feet  long  by 
ten  high.  Now  we  are  totally  unfamiliar  with  the 
technical  jargon  adopted  by  those  who  talk  about 
art;  we  could  not  even  obey  the  advice  given  to  us 
by  an  artist  friend,  always  to  turn  a  picture  upside 
down  and  look  at  it  that  way  before  passing  judg- 
ment; but  this  painting  seemed  to  us  a  mighty  fine 
piece  of  work. 


CLAUD  JOSEPH  WARLOW          163 

As  we  said,  it  shows  the  city  as  seen  from  some 
imaginary  bird's-eye  vantage,  perhaps  somewhere 
above  the  Girard  Avenue  Bridge.  The  bending 
course  of  the  Schuylkill  is  shown  in  a  ribbon  of 
deep  blue;  the  broader  and  paler  stretch  of  the 
Delaware  closes  the  canvas  to  the  east;  the  whole 
city  from  Cramps'  shipyard  down  to  Hog  Island 
lies  under  the  gaze,  with  the  brilliance  of  the  even- 
ing lights  shining  up  through  the  soft  blue  dusk. 
The  prevailing  tone  of  the  painting  is  blue;  but 
examined  closely  the  white  of  snow-covered  roofs 
and  the  golden  glow  of  street  lights  sparkling  up- 
ward from  the  channels  of  the  city,  together  with 
the  varied  tints  of  the  masonry,  lend  a  delightful 
exuberance  of  color,  though  always  kept  within  the 
restrained  and  shadowy  soberness  of  a  winter  twi- 
light. 

This  painting  seemed  to  us  so  remarkable  an 
achievement  that  we  were  immediately  interested 
and  made  some  inquiries  to  find  out  who  had  done 
it.  The  story  is  interesting,  as  any  story  of 
achievement  is,  and  it  also  has  a  touch  of  poignant 
tragedy. 

In  the  bitter  snowy  days  of  the  winter  of  1917-18 
— and  there  is  no  Philadelphia!!  who  does  not  re- 
member what  that  winter  was  like — a  young  artist 
of  this  city  spent  the  daylight  of  almost  every 
snowy  day  out  on  the  streets  with  his  paint  box.  He 
climbed  to  the  top  of  high  buildings,  he  haunted  the 
Schuylkill  bridges  with  his  sketchbook,  and  with 
numbed  ringers  he  sat  on  ice-crusted  cornices  or 


164          CLAUD  JOSEPH  WARLOW 

leaned  from  giddy  office  window-sills  noting  down 
colors,  contours  and  the  aspect  of  the  city  from 
various  viewpoints.  Time  and  again  watchmen 
and  policemen  took  him  to  the  station  house  as  a 
suspected  spy  until  his  errand  was  explained  to  the 
city  authorities  and  he  was  given  an  authoritative 
passport.  But  his  passion  for  painting  snow  scenes 
and  his  desire  to  crown  handicapped  years  of  study 
by  a  really  first-rate  canvas  spurred  him  on.  He 
had  spent  the  previous  summer  in  getting  the 
topography  of  the  city  by  heart,  mapping  the 
course  of  various  streets  until  he  knew  them  house 
by  house.  Then,  when  the  bitterest  winter  in  our 
history  came  along,  the  snow  that  bothered  most 
of  us  was  just  what  he  had  yearned  for.  He  rev- 
elled in  the  serene  sparkling  colors  of  the  winter 
twilight  when  blazing  windows  cast  their  radiance 
across  the  milky  whiteness  and  the  sky  shimmers 
a  clear  gem-like  emerald  and  blue  and  mother-of- 
pearl. 

Even  those  who  know  the  city  through  a  long 
lifetime  of  street  wandering  will  admit  the  diffi- 
culty of  representing  the  vast  area  as  it  would  be 
seen  from  an  imaginary  gazing-point  high  in  air. 
Infinite  problems  of  perspective,  infinite  details  of 
accuracy  and  patient  verification  must  enter  into 
such  a  work.  But  the  artist  never  wavered  through 
his  long  task.  The  sketches  he  had  made  through 
that  long  blizzard  winter  were  gradually  put  on  his 
big  canvas  through  the  hot  days  of  last  summer. 
Undoubtedly  it  was  a  happy  task,  working  on  that 


165 


broad  snowscape  in  the  hot  drowsy  weather,  with 
the  growing  certainty  that  he  was  doing  some- 
thing that  measured  up  to  his  dream  of  portraying 
the  city  he  loved,  picturing  it  with  the  accurate 
fidelity  of  a  map  and  yet  with  the  loving  eye  of  an 
artist  who  lingers  over  the  beauty  that  most  of  us 
only  intuitively  suspect.  The  painting  was  fin- 
ished early  in  the  autumn  and  the  ambitious  young 
artist  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  triumphant 
day  when  it  would  be  hung  in  the  new  office  of  the 
Electric  Company,  which  had  encouraged  the 
work  and  made  it  possible. 

Then  came  the  influenza  epidemic,  and  the 
artist  was  among  the  first  to  be  carried  off  by  that 
tragic  pestilence.  He  died  without  seeing  his  paint- 
ing put  up  in  the  place  of  honor  it  now  occupies. 
In  his  modesty  he  did  not  even  put  his  name  on 
the  canvas — or  at  least  if  he  did  it  is  written  so 
minutely  that  one  hunts  for  it  in  vain. 

It  is  good  to  know  that  the  Philadelphia  Electric 
Company  is  going  to  erect  a  bronze  tablet  in  his 
memory  beside  the  splendid  painting  on  which  he 
worked  for  a  year  and  a  half. 

The  name  of  the  artist  was  Claud  Joseph  War- 
low,  well  remembered  at  the  Academy  of  the  Fine 
Arts  as  one  of  its  most  promising  pupils  in  recent 
3'ears.  He  was  born  in  Williamstown,  Pa.,  March 
31,  1888,  and  died  in  this  city  October  6,  1918. 
His  skill  as  an  artist  was  apparent  even  as  a  boy; 
chalk  drawings  that  he  made  on  the  blackboard  at 
school  were  so  good  that  they  were  allowed  to  re- 


166          CLAUD  JOSEPH  WARLOW 

main  on  the  board  for  months  after  he  had  done 
them  as  an  incentive  to  other  children.  After  leav- 
ing school  he  started  a  sign-painting  business, 
sketching  in  oils  in  his  spare  time.  Owing  to  his 
father's  death,  about  1906,  he  had  to  postpone  for 
some  years  his  ambition  to  enter  the  Academy 
classes,  finally  attaining  that  desire  in  1911.  At 
the  Academy  he  was  awarded  several  prizes, 
notably  the  Cresson  traveling  fellowship,  which 
he  was  not  able  to  enjoy  on  account  of  the  war. 
We  hope  that  all  lovers  of  Philadelphia  will  take 
occasion  to  step  into  the  office  of  the  Electric  Com- 
pany to  see  this  beautiful  painting.  There  are  no 
words  competent  to  express  the  tragedy  of  those 
who  have  worked  patiently  for  an  ideal  and  yet 
die  too  soon  to  see  their  dreams  come  to  full  fruit. 
Yet  it  is  good  to  remember  that  those  pinched  and 
bitter  days  of  last  winter,  when  we  were  all  be- 
moaning Black  Mondays  and  ways  clogged  with 
snow,  gave  Claud  Warlow  his  opportunity  to  put 
on  canvas  the  beauty  that  haunted  him  and 
which  made  his  life  a  triumph.  And  a  civilization 
that  is  wise  enough  to  beautify  an  electrical  office 
with  so  fine  a  mural  canvas,  that  builds  railroad 
stations  like  Greek  temples,  puts  one  of  the  world's 
finest  organs  in  a  department  store  and  a  painting 
of  mosaic  glass  in  a  publishing  plant,  is  a  civiliza- 
tion that  brings  endless  hope  to  birth. 


AT  THE  MINT  167 


AT  THE  MINT 

I  DON'T  know  just  why  it  was,  but  all  the  time  I 
was  in  the  Mint  yesterday  I  kept  on  thinking 
about  Lenine  and  Trotsky  and  how  much  they 
would  have  liked  to  be  there. 

I  found  my  friend,  the  assistant  assayer,  in  his 
laboratory  making  mysterious  chalk  marks  on  a 
long  blackboard  and  gazing  with  keen  gray  eyes 
^at  a  circle  of  little  bottles  containing  pale  bluish 
fluids.  At  the  bottom  of  each  vessel  was  a  white 
sediment  that  looked  like  a  mixture  of  cream 
cheese  and  headache  powder.  "Silver,"  said  the 
assistant  assayer,  in  an  offhand  way,  and  I  was 
duly  impressed. 

You  may  expect  to  be  impressed  when  you  visit 
the  Mint  on  Spring  Garden  street.  Most  of  us 
know,  in  a  vague  way,  that  two-thirds  of  our  coin- 
age comes  from  that  dignified  building,  which  is 
probably  the  finest  mint  building  in  the  world. 
Fewer  of  us  know  that  most  of  South  America's 
coins  come  from  there  too,  and  when  the  citizens 
of  Lima  or  Buenos  Aires  pay  out  their  bright 
centavos  for  a  movie  show  or  a  black  cigar  their 
pockets  jingle  with  small  change  stamped  in  Phila- 
delphia. And  none  of  us  can  realize,  without  a 
trip  to  that  marvelous  home  of  wonders,  the  spirit 
of  devoted  and  delicate  science  that  moves  among 
the  men  who  have  spent  self-effacing  lives  in  test- 


168 AT  THE  MINT 

ing  precious  metals  and  molding  them  into  the 
most  beautiful  coinage  known  on  earth. 

The  assistant  assayer,  after  a  last  lingering  look 
at  his  little  blue  flasks — he  was  testing  the  amount 
of  silver  in  deposits  of  ore  brought  in  to  the  Mint 
from  all  over  the  country — if  you  find  any  in  your 
back  yard  the  Mint  will  pay  you  a  dollar  an  ounce 
for  it — was  gracious  enough  to  give  me  some  fleet- 
ing glances  at  the  fascinating  work  going  on  in  the 
building.  The  first  thing  one  realizes  is  the  pres- 
ence of  the  benign  and  silent  goddess  of  Science. 
Those  upper  floors,  where  the  assayers  work  in 
large,  quiet  chambers,  are  like  the  workrooms  of 
some  great  university,  some  university  happily  ex- 
empt from  the  turbulent  and  irritating  presence  of 
students,  where  the  professors  are  able  to  lose 
themselves  in  the  worship  of  their  own  researches. 
Great  delicate  scales — only  you  mustn't  call  them 
"scales,"  but  "balances" — that  tremble  like  a 
lover's  heart  if  you  lay  a  hair  on  one  platform, 
shelter  their  gossamer  workings  behind  glass  cases. 
My  guide  showed  me  one,  a  fantastic  delicacy  so 
sensitive  that  one  feels  as  clumsy  as  Gibraltar 
when  one  looks  at  it.  Each  division  on  its  ivory 
register  indicates  one-tenth  of  a  milligram,  which, 
I  should  say,  is  about  as  heavy  as  the  eyelash  of  a 
flea.  With  a  pair  of  calipers  he  dropped  a  tiny 
morsel  of  paper  on  one  balance  and  the  needle 
swung  over  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  scale.  With 
his  eyes  shining  with  enthusiasm  he  showed  how, 
by  means  of  a  counterpoise  made  of  a  platinum 


AT  THE  MINT 169 

wire  as  slender  as  a  mosquito's  leg,  he  could  swing 
the  needle  back  toward  the  middle  of  the  scale  and 
get  the  exact  reading. 

At  another  balance  a  scientist  was  snipping 
shreds  from  a  long  ribbon  of  gold.  I  was  allowed 
to  hold  it  in  my  hand,  and  though  its  curator  ex- 
plained deprecatingly  that  it  was  only  999.5  thou- 
sandths pure,  it  seemed  pure  enough  for  all  my 
purposes.  It  is  wonderful  stuff,  soft  enough  to 
tie*  in  knots  and  yet  so  tough  that  it  is  very 
difficult  to  cut  with  heavy  shears.  That  strip  of 
about  sixty  ounces  was  worth  well  over  $1200 — 
and  they  didn't  even  search  me  when  I  left  the 
building.  "Proof  gold,"  it  seems,  which  is  1000 
pure,  is  worth  $40  an  ounce,  and  all  the  proof  gold 
used  for  scientific  purposes  in  this  country  is  re- 
fined in  the  Philadelphia  Mint.  The  assistant 
assayer  showed  me  lots  of  nice  little  nuggets  of 
it  in  a  drawer.  Almost  every  drawer  he  opened 
contained  enough  roots  of  evil  to  make  a  news- 
paperman happy  for  a  year. 

In  a  neat  little  row  of  furnaces  set  into  a  tiled 
wall  I  was  shown  some  queer  little  cups  heating  to 
1700  degrees  in  a  rosy  swirl  of  fire.  These  little 
"cupels,"  as  they  call  them,  are  made  of  com- 
pressed bone-ash  and  are  used  to  absorb  the  baser 
metals  in  an  alloy.  Their  peculiar  merit  is  that  at 
the  required  temperature  they  absorb  all  the 
copper,  lead  or  whatever  other  base  metal  there 
may  be  and  leave  in  the  cup  only  the  gold  and 
silver.  Then  the  gold  and  silver  mixture  is  placed 


170 AT  THE  MINT 

in  boiling  nitric  acid,  which  takes  out  all  the  silver 
and  leaves  only  the  globule  of  pure  gold.  The 
matter  that  puzzles  the  lay  observer  is,  how  do 
you  find  these  things  out  in  the  first  place?  But  I 
would  believe  anything  after  one  marvel  my  friend 
showed  me.  He  picked  up  a  glass  that  looked  like 
an  innocent  tumbler  of  spring  water.  ''This,"  he 
said,  "is  nitrate  of  silver;  in  other  words,  dis- 
solved silver.  Don't  spill  it  on  your  clothes  or  it 
will  eat  them  right  off  your  back."  I  kept  off, 
aghast.  Into  the  tumbler  he  dropped  a  little  mu- 
riatic acid.  The  mixture  boiled  and  fumed  and 
long  streamers  of  soft,  cheesy  substance  began  to 
hasten  toward  the  bottom  of  the  glass,  waving  like 
trees  in  a  gale.  "That's  the  silver,"  he  said,  and 
while  I  was  still  tremulous  showed  me  wafers  of 
gold  dissolving  in  aqua  regia.  When  completely 
dissolved  the  liquid  looks  like  a  thin  but  very 
sweet  molasses.  He  then  performed  similar  magic 
upon  some  silver  solution  by  unloading  a  pipette  of 
salt  water  on  it  and  shaking  it  in  a  little  machine 
called  an  "agitator."  After  which  he  felt  I  was 
sufficiently  humble  to  show  me  the  furnace 
room. 

If  you  have  an  affection  for  the  nice  old  silver 
cartwheel  dollars,  keep  away  from  the  furnace 
room  of  the  Mint,  for  one  of  the  first  things  you 
will  see  is  whole  truckloads  of  them  moving  silently 
to  their  doom.  I  was  told  that  there  is  a  shortage 
of  silver  in  Europe  these  days,  particularly  since 
troubles  in  Mexico  have  reduced  that  country's 


AT  THE  MINT  171 

output  of  ore,  and  in  order  to  accommodate  for- 
eign friends  Uncle  Sam  has  recently  melted  200,- 
000,000  of  our  old  friends  into  bars  and  50,000,000 
more  of  them  are  on  the  way  to  the  furnace.  None 
have  been  coined  since  1904,  as  apparently  they 
are  not  popular. 

The  pride  of  the  Mint  centers  just  now  upon  the 
two  pew  electric  furnaces,  the  larger  of  which  has 
only  been  installed  a  few  weeks  (a  Swedish  inven- 
tion, by  the  way),  but  the  old  gas  ovens  are  more 
spectacular  to  the  visitor  because  the  flames  are 
more  visible.  When  the  heavy  door  is  slid  aside 
you  can  see  the  crucible  (made  of  graphite  from 
Ceylon)  with  its  mass  of  silver  dollars,  standing 
patiently  in  the  furious  glow.  Then,  if  you  are 
lucky,  you  will  see  them  ladling  out  the  liquid 
silver  into  the  molds.  One  of  the  workmen  held  a 
slip  of  paper  to  the  boiling  metal:  it  burst  into 
flame  and  he  calmly  lit  his  pipe  with  it.  In  other 
furnaces  sheets  of  nickel  from  which  Argentine 
coins  had  been  punched  were  being  melted,  sur- 
rounded by  a  marvelous  radiance  of  green  and 
golden  fire.  All  about  you  are  great  ingots  of  cop- 
per, silver,  nickel  and  boxes  of  queer  little  nickel 
nuggets,  formed  by  dropping  the  hot  liquid  into 
ice  water.  It  is  a  place  in  which  one  would  will- 
ingly spend  a  whole  day  watching  the  wonders 
which  those  accustomed  to  them  take  so  calmly. 
In  the  vault  just  outside  the  furnace  room  I  was 
shown  between  eighteen  and  nineteen  million  dol- 
lars' worth  of  gold  bars  stacked  up  on  shelves. 


172 AT  THE  MINT 

Again — I  don't  know  just  why — I  thought  of 
Lenine  and  Trotsky. 

There  were  also  more  truckloads  of  the  old  silver 
dollars  on  their  way  to  the  fire.  Some  of  them, 
though  dated  back  in  the  seventies,  seemed  as 
good  as  new;  others  were  badly  worn.  They  were 
piled  up  in  lots  of  40,000,  which,  when  new,  would 
weigh  34,375  ounces;  one  lot,  I  was  told,  had  lost 
208  ounces  through  abrasion. 

In  the  big  coining  room  the  presses  were  busily 
at  work  stamping  out  new  coins,  and  women  op- 
erators were  carefully  examining  the  "blanks"  for 
imperfections  before  they  go  under  the  dies.  To 
one  who  expected  to  see  vast  quantities  of  shining 
new  American  coinage  it  was  odd  to  learn  that 
almost  all  the  machines  were  busy  turning  out 
small  change  for  Peru  and  Argentina.  Next  week, 
the  foreman  said,  they  start  on  a  big  order  of  the 
queer  coins  of  Siam,  which  have  a  hole  in  the 
middle  like  the  Chinese  money.  But  I  saw  one 
machine  busy  turning  out  Lincoln  pennies  at  the 
rate  of  100  a  minute.  The  one-cent  piece  requires 
a  pressure  of  forty  tons  to  stamp  the  design  on  the 
metal;  the  larger  coins,  of  course,  need  a  heavier 
pressure,  up  to  120  tons. 

The  Mint's  wonderful  collection  of  coins  and 
medals  of  all  lands  would  deserve  an  article  of  its 
own.  One  of  the  rarities  of  which  the  curator  is 
most  proud  is  a  terra-cotta  medallion  of  Franklin, 
made  by  Nini  at  Chaumont  in  1777.  It  is  in  per- 
fect condition  and  was  bought  by  the  Mint  from  a 


AT  THE  MINT 173 

New  York  newspaperman.  A  brand-new  acquisi- 
tion, only  set  up  within  the  last  few  weeks,  is  a 
case  of  French  military  decorations  presented  by 
the  French  Government — the  five  grades  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  the  four  grades  of  the  Croix  de 
Guerre  a*hd  the  Medaille  Militaire.  Near  these  are 
the  United  States  military  and  naval  medals,  a 
sad  and  ugly  contrast  to  the  delicate  art  of  the 
French  trophies. 

I  was  unfortunate  in  not  being  lucky  enough  to 
meet  Superintendent  Joyce,  under  whose  adminis- 
tration the  Philadelphia  Mint  has  become  the 
most  remarkable  place  of  coinage  in  the  world;  or 
Mr.  Eckfeldt,  the  assayer  in  chief,  who  has  served 
the  Mint  for  fifty-four  years  and  is  the  son  of  the 
former  assayer  and  grandson  of  the  Mint's  first 
"coiner,"  Adam  Eckfeldt.  These  three  genera- 
tions of  Eckfeldts  have  served  the  Mint  for  123 
years.  But  my  friend  Mr.  Homer  L.  Pound,  the 
assistant  assayer,  who  modestly  speaks  of  his  own 
thirty  years  of  service  as  a  mere  trifle,  had  by  this 
time  shown  me  so  much  that  my  brain  reeled.  He 
permitted  me  to  change  my  pocket  money  into 
brand  new  coinage  of  1919  as  a  souvenir,  and  then 
I  left.  And  as  for  Lenine  and  Trotsky,  the  experi- 
ence would  have  killed  them! 


174   STONEHOUSE  LANE  AND  THE  NECK 


STONEHOUSE  LANE  AND  THE  NECK 

IT  HAD  been  a  very  hot  day.  At  seven  o'clock 
the  rich  orange  sunshine  was  still  flooding  straight 
down  Chestnut  street.  The  thought  occurred  to 
me  that  it  would  be  a  splendid  evening  to  see  the 
sunset  over  the  level  fens  of  The  Neck,  that  curi- 
ous canal-country  of  South  Philadelphia  which  so 
few  of  us  know. 

You  take  the  Fourth  street  car  to  Fifth  and 
Ritner.  The  wide  space  of  Mifflin  Square  is  full 
of  playing  children.  Here  you  halt  to  light  a  pipe. 
This  is  advisable,  as  you  will  see  in  a  moment.  A 
couple  of  blocks  south  brings  you  to  one  of  the 
most  noxious  areas  of  dump  heaps  and  waste  lit- 
ters in  the  world.  An  expanse  of  evil-smelling 
junk  smokes  with  a  thin  haze  of  burning.  Queer 
little  wooden  shacks,  stables,  pig  pens,  sit  com- 
fortably in  a  desert  of  tin  cans  and  sour  rubbish. 
You  will  need  your  tobacco  if  you  are  squeamish. 
In  the  shadow  of  mountains  of  outcast  scrap  are 
tiny  homes  under  dusty  shade,  where  a  patient  old 
lady  was  sitting  in  a  wheel  chair  reading  a  book. 

A  winding  track,  inconceivably  sordid,  leads 
through  fields  of  rank  burdock,  ashes,  broken 
brick,  rusty  barrel  hoops.  Two  ancient  horses 
were  grazing  there,  and  there  seemed  a  certain 
pathos  in  a  white  van  I  encountered  at  the  cross- 
ing where  Stonehouse  lane  goes  over  the  freight 


STONEHOUSE  LANE  AND  THE  NECK    175 

tracks.  The  Brown  Company,  it  said,  Removers  of 
Dead  Animals. 

But  once  across  the  railway  you  step  into  a  new 
world,  a  country  undreamed  of  by  the  uptown  citi- 
zen. Green  meadows  lie  under  the  pink  sunset 
light.  One-story  white  houses,  very  small,  but 
with  yards  swept  clean  and  neat  whitewashed 
fences,  stand  under  poplars  and  willows.  It  is 
almost  an  incredible  experience  to  come  upon  that 
odd  little  village  as  one  crosses  a  wooden  bridge 
and  sees  boys  fishing  hopefully  in  a  stagnant  canal. 
At  the  bend  in  the  lane  is  a  trim  white  house  with 
vivid  flowers  in  the  garden,  beds  patterned  with 
whited  shells,  an  old  figurehead — or  is  it  a  cigar- 
store  sign? — of  a  colored  boy  in  a  blue  coat, 
freshly  painted  in  the  yard.  It  is  like  a  country 
hamlet,  full  of  dogs,  hens,  ducks  and  children.  In 
the  stable  yards  horses  stand  munching  at  the 
barn  doors.  Some  of  the  little  houses  are  painted 
red,  brown  and  green.  A  girl  in  a  faded  blue  pina- 
fore comes  up  the  road  leading  two  white  horses, 
a  solitary  cow  trails  along  behind. 

Like  every  country  village,  Stonehouse  lane  has 
its  own  grocery  store,  a  fascinating  little  place 
where  one  can  sit  on  the  porch  and  drink  a  bottle 
of  lemon  soda.  This  tiny  shop  is  stuffed  with  all 
manner  of  provisioning;  it  has  one  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned coffee  grinders  with  two  enormous  fly- 
wheels. In  the  dusk,  when  the  two  oil  lamps  are 
lit  and  turned  low  on  account  of  the  heat,  it  shines 
with  a  fine  tawny  light  that  would  speak  to  the  eye 


176   STONEHOUSE  LANE  AND  THE  NECK 

of  a  painter.  A  lamplighter  comes  along  kindling 
the  gas  burners,  which  twinkle  down  the  long 
white  lane.  A  rich  essence  of  pig  steeps  in  the  air, 
but  it  is  not  unpalatable  to  one  accustomed  to  the 
country.  As  one  sits  on  the  porch  of  the  store 
friendly  dogs  nose  about  one,  and  the  village  chil- 
dren come  with  baskets  to  do  the  evening  pur- 
chasing. 

A  map  of  the  city  gives  one  little  help  in  explor- 
ing this  odd  region  of  The  Neck.  According  to  the 
map  one  might  believe  that  it  is  all  laid  out  and 
built  up  in  rectilinear  streets.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
it  is  a  spread  of  meadows,  marshes  and  scummy 
canals,  with  winding  lanes  and  paths  stepping  off 
among  clumps  of  trees  and  quaint  white  cottages 
half  hidden  among  rushes,  lilies  and  honeysuckle 
matting.  Off  to  the  east  rise  the  masts  and  wire- 
less aerials  of  League  Island.  It  is  a  strange  land, 
with  customs  of  its  own,  not  to  be  discerned  at 
sight.  Like  all  small  communities  sharply  con- 
scious of  their  own  identity,  it  is  proud  and  re- 
served. It  is  a  native  American  settlement :  the 
children  are  flaxen  and  sturdy,  their  skin  gilded 
with  that  amazing  richness  and  beauty  of  color 
that  comes  to  small  urchins  who  play  all  day  long 
in  the  sun  in  scant  garmenting. 

Over  another  railway  siding  one  passes  into  the 
fens  proper,  and  away  from  the  village  of  Stone- 
house  lane.  (I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what  was  the 
stone  house  which  gave  it  the  name?  All  the  pre- 
sent cottages  are  plainly  wood.)  Now  one  is  in  a 


STONEHOUSE  LANE  AND  THE  NECK    177 

country  almost  Dutch  in  aspect.  It  is  seamed 
with  canals  and  was  probably  an  island  originally, 
for  it  is  still  spoken  of  as  Greenwich  Island.  Along 
the  canals  are  paths,  white  and  dusty  in  the  sum- 
mer drought,  very  soft  to  walk  upon.  Great 
clumps  of  thick  old  willows  stand  up  against  the 
low  horizon.  The  light  grows  less  steep  as  the  sun 
sinks  in  a  powdery  haze  of  rose  and  orange.  In 
one  of  the  canals,  below  a  high  embankment,  half 
a  dozen  naked  boys  were  bathing,  attended  by  a 
joyous  white  dog.  In  that  evening  pinkness  of 
light  their  bodies  gleamed  beautifully.  Through 
masses  of  flowering  sumac,  past  thick  copses  and 
masses  of  reeds,  over  broad  fields  of  bird-song, 
narrow  paths  lead  down  to  the  river.  In  the  warm 
savor  of  summer  air  it  all  seemed  as  deserted  and 
refreshing  as  some  Adirondack  pasture.  Then  one 
stands  at  the  top  of  a  little  sandy  bank  and  sees 
the  great  bend  of  the  Delaware.  Opposite  is  the 
mouth  of  Timber  Creek,  Walt  Whitman's  favorite 
pleasure  haunt.  A  little  lower  down  is  League 
Island. 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  dreams  one  could 
have  is  of  all  this  broad  fen-land  as  a  great  city 
playground.  It  is  strange  that  Philadelphia  has 
made  so  little  use  of  the  Delaware  for  purposes  of 
public  beauty.  A  landscape  architect  would  go 
mad  with  joy  if  given  the  delightful  task  of  plan- 
ning The  Neck  as  a  park.  It  would  take  com- 
paratively little  effort  to  drain  it  properly  and 
make  it  one  of  the  noblest  pleasure  grounds  in  the 


178 VALLEY  FORGE 

world.  Will  this  wonderful  strip  of  river-bank  be 
allowed  to  pass  into  slime  and  smoke  as  the  lower 
Schuylkill  has  done? 

The  stream  lap-laps  against  a  narrow  shelf  of 
sandy  beach,  where  there  are  a  number  of  logs  for 
comfortable  sitting.  A  water  rat  ran  quietly  up 
the  bank  as  I  slid  down  it.  A  steamer  passed  up 
the  river,  her  windows  aflame  with  the  last  of  the 
sunlight.  Birds  were  merry  in  the  scrub  willows, 
and  big  dragon  flies  flittering  about.  The  light 
grew  softer  and  grayer,  while  a  concave  moon 
swung  high  over  the  water.  Motorboats  chugged 
gently  by,  while  a  big  dredge  further  upstream 
continued  to  clang  and  grind.  By  and  by  the 
river  was  empty.  It  had  been  a  very  hot  day,  and 
a  great  idea  occurred  to  me.  In  the  good  old 
brownish  water  of  the  Delaware  I  had  what  my 
friend  Mifflin  McGill  used  to  call  a  "  surreptious  " 
swim. 

VALLEY  FORGE 

A  CURIOUS  magic  moves  in  the  air  of  Valley 
Forge.  There  is  the  same  subtle  plucking  at  heart 
and  nerves  that  one  feels  when  coming  home  from 
abroad,  passing  up  some  salty  harbor  on  a  ship,  he 
sees  his  own  flag  rippling  from  a  home  staff.  It  is 
a  sudden  inner  vision  of  the  meaning  of  America. 
It  is  a  realization  of  the  continuity  of  history,  a 
sense  of  the  imperishable  quality  of  human  virtue. 
And  today,  when  this  nation  stands  on  the  sill  of  a 
new  era,  ready  to  surrender  for  the  sake  of  human- 


VALLEY  FORGE  179 

ity  some  of  the  proud  traditions  ingrained  by 
years  of  bitter  struggle,  what  place  could  be  a  more 
fitting  haunt  of  dreams  and  nursery  of  imagina- 
tion? Here,  on  these  wind-swept  slopes  where  now 
the  summer  air  carries  the  sweetness  of  fresh-cut 
hay,  here  in  this  vale  of  humiliation  men  met  the 
arrows  of  despair.  There  is  an  old  belief  that  it  is 
the  second  summer  that  is  the  danger  time  in  a 
baby's  life.  It  was  the  second  winter  that  was  the 
cradle-crisis  of  the  young  republic — the  winter  of 
1777-78.  It  was  then  that  began  the  long  road 
that  carries  us  from  Valley  Forge  to  Versailles. 

Few  of  us  realize,  I  think,  what  a  vast  national 
shrine  Valley  Forge  has  become  under  the  careful 
hands  of  a  few  devoted  people.  There  is  little  of 
winter  and  dearth  in  that  spreading  park  as  one 
views  it  on  a  July  afternoon.  In  the  great  valley 
of  the  Schuylkill  green  acres  of  young  corn  ripple 
in  the  breeze.  Sunlight  and  shadow  drift  across 
the  hillsides  as  great  rafts  of  cloud  swim  down  un- 
seen channels  of  the  wind.  There  is  no  country  in 
America  lovelier  than  those  quiet  hills  and  vales  of 
Montgomery  and  Chester  counties,  with  their 
shadowed  creeks,  their  plump  orchards  and  old 
stone  farmhouses.  My  idea  of  jovial  destiny 
would  be  to  be  turned  loose  (about  the  beginning 
of  the  scrapple  season)  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  King  of  Prussia — no  one  but  an  idiot 
will  ever  call  him  by  his  new  name  of  Ye  Old  King ! 
— with  a  knapsack  of  tobacco,  a  knobby  stick  and 
a  volume  of  R.  L.  S. 


180 VALLEY  FORGE 

Coming  down  the  road  from  Devon,  the  first 
thing  one  sees  is  the  great  equestrian  statue  of 
Anthony  Wayne  on  its  pink  pedestal.  It  stands  on 
a  naked  ridge,  which  was  formerly  groved  with 
fine  oaks.  The  Caliph  who  had  me  in  charge  told 
me  with  blood  in  his  eye  that  the  trees  had  been 
slaughtered  in  order  to  give  a  wider  view  of  the 
statue.  It  seems  a  serious  pity.  Beyond  this  one 
comes  to  the  National  Arch,  designed  by  Paul 
Cret,  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  who  has 
since  so  gallantly  served  his  native  France  on  fields 
of  battle  far  more  terrible  than  Valley  Forge. 
From  this  arch,  with  its  fine  inscription  by  Henry 
Armitt  Brown,  there  is  a  serene  view  across  yellow 
fields  of  stubble  where  a  big  hay  wagon  was  piled 
high  with  its  fragrant  load. 

Mr.  Weikel,  the  friendly  guard  on  duty  at  this 
spot,  a  Civil  War  veteran,  was  kind  enough  to 
show  us  the  hut  which  is  his  headquarters.  It  is 
one  of  the  many  scattered  through  the  park,  rep- 
licas of  the  original  soldiers'  huts,  built  of  logs  and 
chinked  with  clay.  With  its  little  smoke-stained 
fireplace  and  weathered  roof,  sitting  on  that  hill- 
top in  the  sweet  quick  air,  it  seemed  a  pleasant 
place  for  meditation.  Over  the  rough-hewn  mantel 
was  an  old  picture  of  George  Washington  and  a 
badge  belonging  to  some  member  of  the  American 
Press  Humorists,  dropped  by  one  of  these  mad 
wags  on  their  recent  visit  to  the  park. 

But  the  chief  glory  of  Valley  Forge  is  the  Wash- 
ington Memorial  Chapel,  a  place  so  startling  in  its 


VALLEY  FORGE 181 

beauty  that  it  takes  the  breath  away.  Through 
a  humble  arched  door — as  lowly  as  the  doorway  of 
suffering  through  which  the  nation  came  to  birth — 
one  enters  a  shrine  of  color  where  the  history  of  the 
republic  is  carved  in  stone.  The  tall  windows 
blaze  with  blue  and  scarlet.  A  silk  Stars  and 
Stripes,  hanging  by  the  stone  pulpit,  waves  gently 
in  the  cool  wind  that  draws  up  from  the  valley  and 
through  the  open  door.  The  archway  into  the 
cloister  frames  a  glimpse  of  green.  In  every  detail 
this  marvelous  little  Westminster  Abbey  of  Amer- 
ica shows  the  devoted  thought  of  Dr.  Herbert 
Burk,  the  man  who  has  lavished  his  heart  upon 
this  noble  symbol  of  our  national  life.  With  his 
brown  eyes  glowing  with  enthusiasm  he  will  ex- 
plain how  the  religion,  the  romance,  the  pathos 
and  humor  of  a  century  and  a  half  are  woven  into 
every  line  and  tint  of  the  fabric.  The  magnificent 
stained  windows — windows  that  recall  nothing  less 
fine  than  the  most  splendid  cathedrals  of  the  mid- 
dle ages — were  planned  by  Doctor  Burk  and  exe- 
cuted by  Nicola  D'Ascenzo.  The  marvelous  oak 
carvings  of  the  choir  stalls  and  pews,  the  carved 
lead  lamps,  the  organ,  all  were  done  here  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

This  amazing  poem  in  stone,  endless  in  lovingly 
elaborated  beauty,  can  no  more  be  described  than 
any  great  poem  can  be  described.  It  is  as  perfect, 
as  unique,  as  "The  Eve  of  Saint  Agnes";  as  rich 
in  color  and  as  thrilling  in  meaning.  On  these  hill- 
sides, where  men  "tramped  the  snow  to  coral," 


182 VALLEY  FORGE 

hungry,  shivering  and  unshod;  where  a  great  art- 
ist, wanting  to  paint  the  commander-in-chief,  had 
to  do  it  on  bedticking;  and  where  this  same  com- 
mander, worshiper  as  well  as  warrior,  stole  from 
the  campfire  to  pray;  on  this  field  of  doubt  and 
suffering  there  has  risen  this  monument  of  religious 
art,  devised  as  a  focus  of  patriotic  inspiration  for 
the  whole  republic.  It  is  an  altar  of  national  wor- 
ship, as  though  expressly  conceived  to  give  out- 
ward shape  to  the  words  uttered  only  yesterday 
by  another  commander-in-chief: 

The  stage  is  set,  the  destiny  disclosed.  It  has  come 
about  by  no  plan  of  our  conceiving,  but  by  the  hand  of 
God,  who  led  us  into  this  way.  We  cannot  turn  baok.  We 
can  only  go  forward,  with  lifted  eyes  and  freshened  spirit, 
to  follow  the  vision.  It  was  of  this  that  we  dreamed  at  our 
birth. 

Of  the  dreams  of  America's  birth  the  Washing- 
ton Memorial  Chapel  is  the  noble  and  fitting 
symbol.  It  is  both  a  thanksgiving  and  a  prophecy. 

From  no  other  lips  than  those  of  Doctor  Burk 
himself  can  the  story  of  this  place  be  told.  He  will 
tell  you  how  the  chapel  grew  out  of  humility  and 
discouragement.  He  will  show  you  the  plain  little 
wooden  chapel  which  he  built  first  of  all,  before 
money  could  be  raised  for  the  present  building.  He 
will  show  you  the  gargoyle — the  Imp  of  Valley 
Forge — which  he  says  is  emblematic  of  the  spirit  of 
the  place  because  he  can  smile  even  in  winter  when 
his  mouth  is  full  of  ice.  The  chapel  goes  back  to 
the  truest  tradition  of  medieval  art,  when  so  much 
humor  was  carved  into  the  stone  ornaments  of 


VALLEY  FORGE 183 

cathedrals.  When  the  cornerstone  was  laid  in  1903 
Doctor  Burk  had  only  enough  money  on  hand  to 
pay  for  two  loads  of  stone;  he  had  only  a  piece  of 
hemlock  board  to  shelter  the  copper  box  that  con- 
tained the  relics  to  be  inclosed  in  the  foundations, 
and  after  the  ceremony  had  to  smuggle  the  box 
back  to  his  home  for  safe-keeping.  Standing  in  the 
beautiful  little  cloister  where  the  open-air  pulpit 
looks  out  into  the  woodland  cathedral  (with 
Mount  Vernon  elms  planted  in  the  form  of  a  cross), 
he  says:  "If  the  park  were  left  alone  it  would  be 
merely  a  picnic  ground.  It's  the  most  spiritual 
spot  in  America:  we  must  maintain  its  spiritual 
heritage." 

It  is  one  of  the  rector's  regrets  that  only  one 
President  has  ever  visited  Valley  Forge.  As  one 
stands  in  the  open-air  pulpit  looking  out  through 
the  grove  of  elms  and  over  the  blue  and  green 
valley,  one  wishes  that  Mr.  Wilson  might  visit  the 
spot.  There  is  no  place  in  America  of  such  peculiar 
significance  just  now,  there  would  be  no  man  so 
quick  as  Mr.  Wilson  to  catch  its  spiritual  echoes. 
Even  the  humblest  of  us  hears  secret  whispers  in 
the  rustle  of  those  trees. 


184      THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 


THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 
THERE  is  a  legend  of  an  old  booklover  who  was 
pasturing  among  his  folios  one  evening  by  candle 
light.  Perhaps  he  sat  (as  Charles  Lamb  used  to) 
with  a  tumbler  of  mild  grog  at  his  elbow.  Perhaps 
he  was  in  that  curious  hypnotic  trance  induced  by 
utter  silence,  long  reading  and  insufficient  air.  In 
the  musty  fragrance  of  his  library  the  tapers  cast 
their  mellow  gush  of  gold  about  him,  burning  up 
the  oxygen  from  under  his  very  nose.  At  any  rate, 
in  a  shadowy  alcove  something  stirred.  A  book- 
worm peeped  out  from  a  tall  vellum  binding.  It 
flapped  its  wings  and  crew  with  a  clear  lively  note. 
Startled,  the  aged  bibliophile  looked  up  and  just 
glimpsed  the  vanishing  flutter  of  its  wings.  It  was 
only  a  glimpse,  'but  it  was  enough.  He  ran  to  his 
shelves,  his  ancient  heart  pounding  like  an  anvil 
chorus.  The  old  promise  had  come  true.  For  if 
any  man  shall  live  to  see  a  bookworm,  all  the 
volumes  on  his  shelves  immediately  turn  to  first 
editions,  signed  by  the  author.  But  the  joyous 
spasm  was  too  much  for  the  poor  scholar.  The 
next  morning  he  was  found  lying  palsied  at  the  foot 
of  his  bookcase.  The  fact  that  at  least  two  fingers 
of  grog  remained  in  his  glass,  undrunk,  led  his  fel- 
low booklovers  to  suspect  that  something  strange 
had  happened.  As  he  lay  dying  he  told  the  story 
of  his  vision.  He  was  the  only  man  who  ever  saw 
a  bookworm. 


THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY      185 

But  if  a  bookworm  should  ever  flap  its  wings 
and  crow  in  Philadelphia,  certainly  the  place  where 
it  would  do  so  would  be  the  Mercantile  Library. 
I  imagine  that  when  Mr.  Hedley,  the  delightful 
librarian,  shuts  up  at  night,  turns  off  the  green- 
shaded  lamps  and  rings  the  bell  to  thrust  out  the 
last  lingering  reader  from  the  long  dark  tables,  he 
treads  hopefully  through  those  enchanted  alcoves. 
The  thick  sweet  savor  of  old  calf  and  the  dainty 
bouquet  of  honest  rag  paper,  the  subtle  exhalation 
of  rows  and  rows  of  books  (sweeter  to  the  nostril  of 
the  bibliosoph  than  any  mountain  air  that  ever 
rustled  in  green  treetops)  is  just  the  medium  in 
which  the  fabled  bookworm  would  crow  like  chan- 
ticleer. It  is  fifty  years  this  month  since  the  Mer- 
cantile Library  moved  into  the  old  market  build- 
ing on  Tenth  street,  and  while  fifty  years  is  a  mere 
wink  of  the  eyelash  to  any  bookworm,  still  it  is 
long  enough  for  a  few  eggs  to  hatch.  For  that 
matter,  some  of  the  library's  books  have  been  in 
its  possession  nigh  a  hundred  years,  for  it  will  cele- 
brate its  centennial  in  1922. 

The  Mercantile  is  everything  that  a  library 
ought  to  be.  It  has  the  still  and  reverent  solemnity 
that  a  true  home  of  learning  ought  to  have,  com- 
bined with  an  undercurrent  of  genial  fellowship. 
It  is  not  only  a  library  but  a  club.  Through  the 
glass  panels  at  the  back  one  may  see  the  chess 
players  at  their  meditative  rites,  and  the  last  inner 
fane  where  smoking  is  permitted  and  the  votaries 
puff  well-blackened  briars  and  brood  round  the 


186      THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 

boards  of  combat  in  immortal  silence.  The  quaint 
old  stained  windows  at  the  western  end  of  the  long 
hall  look  down  on  the  magazine  tables  where  one 
may  be  reading  the  Cosmopolitan  and  the  next  the 
Hibbert  Journal.  From  these  colored  panes  Frank- 
lin, Milton,  Beethoven  and  Clovio  gaze  approv- 
ingly. They  are  surmounted  by  four  symbolic  fig- 
ures, representing  (I  suppose)  their  respective  arts 
of  Science,  Poetry,  Music  and  Art.  Of  Clovio  the 
miniaturist  one  does  not  often  hear,  and  I  may  as 
well  be  honest  and  admit  I  had  to  look  him  up  in 
the  encyclopedia. 

To  the  heart  of  the  booklover  the  Mercantile 
speaks  with  a  magical  appeal.  One  wishes  there 
were  a  little  cloister  attached  to  it  where  the 
true  saints  of  the  bookworld  might  be  buried.  It 
seems  hard  that  those  who  have  so  long  trodden 
the  alcoves  of  peace  should  be  interred  elsewhere. 
To  many  devout  souls  libraries  are  the  greatest 
churches  of  humanity.  Even  the  casual  dropper-in 
realizes  that  the  Mercantile  is  more  than  a  mere 
gathering  of  books.  It  is  a  guild,  a  sort  of  monas- 
tery. The  members  have  secret  raptures  and  side- 
long glances  whereby  they  recognize  one  another. 
As  they  walk  down  the  long  entrance  passage  they 
are  purged  of  the  world  and  the  world's  passions. 
As  they  pass  through  the  little  swinging  gates  that 
shut  out  the  mere  visitor,  as  they  bury  themselves 
in  shadowy  corners  and  aisles  pungent  with  book- 
perfume,  they  have  the  grateful  bearing  of  those 
secure  in  a  strong  fortress  where  the  devil  cannot 


THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY       187 

penetrate.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  only  one  test 
of  a  good  library,  which  I  always  employ  when  I 
get  anywhere  near  a  card  catalogue.  There  is  a 
certain  work,  in  three  volumes,  famous  chiefly  be- 
cause Robert  Louis  Stevenson  took  the  second  vol- 
ume with  him  on  his  immortal  Travels  With  a 
Donkey.  It  is  called  Pastors  of  the  Desert,  by 
Peyrat,  a  history  of  the  Huguenots.  If  you  will 
turn  again  to  R.  L.  S.'s  chapter  called  A  Camp  in 
the  Dark  you  will  see  that  he  says: 

I  had  felt  no  other  inconvenience,  except  when 
my  feet  encountered  the  lantern  or  the  second  vol- 
ume of  Peyrat's  Pastors  of  the  Desert  among  the 
mixed  contents  of  my  sleeping  bag. 

I  am  happy  to  assert  that  the  Mercantile  has  a 
set  of  these  volumes,  and  therefore  one  may  pro- 
nounce it  an  A-l  library. 

Of  course  the  Mercantile  has  many  more  ortho- 
dox treasures  than  Peyrat,  though  its  function  is 
not  to  collect  incunabula  or  rare  editions,  but  to 
keep  its  members  supplied  with  the  standard 
things,  and  the  important  books  and  periodicals  of 
the  day.  Mr.  Hedley  was  gracious  enough  to  take 
me  into  the  locked  section  of  the  gallery,  where 
there  are  alcoves  teeming  with  old  volumes  and 
rich  in  the  dust  that  is  so  delightful  to  the  lover  of 
these  things.  He  showed  me,  for  instance,  a  first 
edition  of  the  Authorized  or  King  James  Bible,  im- 
printed at  London  by  Robert  Barker  in  1611.  In- 
side the  front  cover  some  one  has  written  in  pencil 
13 


188      THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY 

"Charge  5£."  I  am  no  expert  on  these  matters, 
but  I  wonder  if  many  a  collector  would  not  pay  a 
hundred  times  as  much  for  it  nowadays?  On 
another  shelf  I  saw  a  beautiful  edition  of  Euse- 
bius's  Chronicles,  printed  at  Venice  in  1483,  the 
paper  as  fresh  and  the  rubrication  as  bright  as 
when  it  was  new.  Opening  it  at  random,  I  found 
the  following  note,  which  seemed  quaintly  topical : 

Anno  salutis  811,  Anno  mundi  6010,  Locustes 
gregatim  ex  Affrica  volantes  Italiam  infestant. 

(Year  of  grace  811,  Year  of  the  earth  6010.  The 
locusts  flying  in  swarms  from  Africa,  infest  Italy.) 

In  this  book  some  former  owner  has  written, 
with  the  honorable  candor  of  the  true  booklover : 

De  isto  pretioso  volumino  animadvertere  libet, 
quod  non  est  "edition  premiere"  sicut  opus  De- 
burii  falso  ostendit. 

W.  H.  Black,  4  Feb.,  1831. 

(Concerning  this  precious  volume  it  is  permitted 
to  remark  that  it  is  not  the  first  edition,  as  the 
work  of  Deburius  falsely  maintains.) 

Ignoble  Deburius,  shame  upon  him! 

Mr.  Hedley  also  showed  me  the  famous  Atlas 
Major  of  John  Blaeu,  the  Dutch  publisher,  issued 
(in  Spanish)  in  Amsterdam  in  1662,  eleven  huge 
tomes  in  white  vellum,  stamped  in  gold.  These 
marvelous  large-scale  maps,  magnificently  colored 
by  hand,  with  every  town  marked  by  a  tiny  dot  of 
gleaming  gold,  set  the  lover  of^fine  work  in  a  tingle 
of  amazement.  Lucky  indeed  the  bibliophile  who 
finds  his  way  to  that  sacred  corner.  One  would 


THE  MERCANTILE  LIBRARY       189 

not  blame  any  bookworm  for  crowing  with  a  shrill 
cry  of  exultation  if  he  were  hatched  in  that  treas- 
ury. There  was  not  time  to  find  out  whether  John 
Blaeu's  atlas  contained  plates  of  American  geogra- 
phy, but  I  hope  to  go  again  and  study  these  fas- 
cinating volumes  more  at  leisure,  by  Mr.  Hedley's 
kindness. 

Perhaps  the  most  curious  feature  of  the  Mer- 
cantile is  the  huge  vaulted  cellar  which  underlies 
the  length  of  the  whole  building.  Constructed 
originally  for  storage  of  market  produce,  before  the 
days  of  modern  refrigeration,  it  is  now  a  dark  and 
mysterious  crypt  extending  under  the  adjoining 
streets,  where  the  rumble  of  wheels  sound  over- 
head. The  library's  stamping  press,  used  to  incise 
the  covers  of  books,  gives  one  of  the  chambers  a 
medieval  monkish  air,  and  the  equally  medieval 
spelling  of  the  janitor  in  some  memoranda  of  his 
own  posted  upon  a  door  do  not  detract  from  the 
fascinating  spell.  With  a  flashlight  Mr.  Hedley 
showed  me  the  great  extent  of  these  underground 
corridors,  and  I  imagined  that  if  so  friendly  a  libra- 
rian should  ever  hold  a  grudge  against  an  author 
it  would  be  an  admirable  place  to  lure  him  and 
leave  him  lost  in  the  dark.  He  would  never  find 
his  way  out  and  his  copyrights  would  expire  long 
before  his  bones  would  be  found.  Joan  Gutenberg, 
the  library  cat,  dwells  in  that  solemn  maze  of 
heavy  brick  arches,  and  she  finds  it  depressing 
that  the  only  literature  stored  down  there  is  the 
overplus  of  old  government  documents. 


190       MEDITATIONS  ON  OYSTERS 


MEDITATIONS  ON  OYSTERS 

SANSOM  street,  below  Ninth,  runs  a  modest 
course  through  the  middle  of  the  afternoon, 
scooped  between  high  and  rather  grimy  walls  so 
that  a  coolness  and  a  shadow  are  upon  it.  It  is  a 
homely  little  channel,  frequented  by  laundry 
wagons  taking  away  great  piles  of  soiled  linen  from 
the  rear  of  the  Continental  Hotel,  and  little  barefoot 
urchins  pushing  carts  full  of  kindling  wood  picked 
up  from  the  litter  of  splintered  packing  cases.  On 
one  side  of  the  street  is  a  big  power-house  where  the 
drone  and  murmur  of  vast  dynamos  croon  a  soft 
undertone  to  the  distant  clang  and  zooming  of  the 
trolleys.  Beyond  that  is  the  stage  door  of  a  bur- 
lesque theatre,  and  a  faint  sweetness  of  grease 
paint  drifts  to  the  nose  down  a  dark,  mysterious 
passageway. 

We  walked  down  this  little  street,  noticing  the 
For  Rent  sign  on  a  saloon  at  the  corner  and  the 
pyramided  boxes  of  green  and  yellow  apples  on  a 
fruit  stand,  and  it  seemed  to  us  that  there  was  an 
unmistakable  breath  of  autumn  in  the  air.  Out 
beyond,  where  the  street  widens  and  floods  itself 
again  with  sun,  there  was  heat  and  shimmer  and 
the  glittering  plate-glass  windows  of  jewelry  deal- 
ers, but  in  the  narrower  strip  of  alley  we  felt  a 
premonitory  tang  of  future  frost.  At  the  end  of 
August  the  sunlight  gets  yellower,  more  oblique; 
it  loses  the  pale  and  deadly  glare  of  earlier  days. 


MEDITATIONS  ON  OYSTERS       191 

It  is  shallower,  more  colorful,  but  weaker  of  im- 
pact. Shall  we  say  it  has  lost  its  punch? 

And'then  we  saw  a  little  oyster  cafe",  well  known 
to  many  lovers  of  good  cheer,  that  has  been  fur- 
bishing itself  for  the  jolly  days  to  come.  No  one 
knows  yet  whether  the  U-boats  have  frightened 
the  oysters,  whether  the  fat  bivalves  will  be  leaner 
and  scarcer  than  in  the  good  old  days;  no  one 
knows  whether  there  will  even  be  enough  of  them 
to  last  out  until  next  Easter;  but  in  the  meantime 
we  all  live  in  hope.  And  one  thing  is  certain — the 
oyster  season  begins  on  Monday.  The  little  cafe 
has  repainted  its  white  front  so  that  it  shines  hos- 
pitably; and  the  sill  and  the  cellar  trapdoor  where 
the  barrels  go  in,  and  the  shutters  and  the  awning 
poles  in  front,  are  all  a  sticky,  glistening  green. 
The  white  marble  step,  hollowed  by  thousands  of 
eager  feet  in  a  million  lunch-time  forays,  has  been 
scrubbed  and  sandsoaped.  And  next  Monday 
morning,  bright  and  early,  out  goes  the  traditional 
red  and  green  sign  of  the  R. 

The  "poor  patient  oyster,"  as  Keats  calls  him 
(or  her,  for  there  are  lady  oysters,  too,  did  you 
know?)  is  not  only  a  sessile  bivalve  mollusk,  but  a 
traditional  symbol  of  autumn  and  winter  cheer. 
Even  if  Mr.  Hoover  counts  out  the  little  round 
crackers  in  twos  and  threes,  we  hope  there  will  be 
enough  of  the  thoughtful  and  innocent  shellfish  to 
go  around.  When  the  cold  winds  begin  to  harp 
and  whinney  at  street  corners  and  wives  go  seek- 
ing among  camphor  balls  for  our  last  year's  over- 


192 DARBY  CREEK 

coats,  you  will  be  glad  to  resume  your  acquain- 
tance with  a  bowl  of  steaming  bivalves,  swimming 
in  milk  with  little  clots  of  yellow  butter  twirling  on 
the  surface  of  the  broth.  An  oyster  stew,  a  glass 
of  light  beer  and  a  corncob  pipe  will  keep  your 
blue  eyes  blue  to  any  weather,  as  a  young  poet  of 
our  acquaintance  puts  it. 


DARBY  CREEK 

THE  other  day  we  had  an  adventure  that  gave 
us  great  joy,  and,  like  all  great  adventures,  it  was 
wholly  unexpected. 

We  went  out  to  spend  an  evening  with  a  certain 
Caliph  who  lives  at  Daylesford — how  many  Main 
Line  commuters,  by  the  way,  know  that  it  is 
named  for  Daylesford  in  Gloucestershire,  the  home 
of  Warren  Hastings? — and  after  supper  the  Caliph 
took  us  for  a  stroll  round  the  twilight.  In  a  green 
hollow  below  the  house,  only  a  few  paragraphs 
away  from  the  room  where  this  Caliph  sits  and 
writes  essays  (he  is  the  only  author  in  Philadelphia 
who  has  never  received  a  rejection  slip)  he  showed 
us  a  delicious  pool,  fed  by  several  springs  and  lying 
under  great  willows.  From  this  pool  tinkled  a 
modest  brook,  splashing  over  a  dam  and  winding 
away  down  an  alluring  valley.  A  white  road  ran 
beside  it,  through  agreeable  thickets  and  shrub- 
bery, starting  off  with  a  twist  that  suggested  all 
manner  of  pleasant  surprises  for  the  wayfarer.  It 


DARBY  CREEK 193 

was  just  the  kind  of  road  to  see  spread  before  one 
at  the  cool  outset  of  a  long  summer  day. 

"This,"  said  the  Caliph,  "is  the  headwater  of 
Darby  creek." 

Little  did  the  Caliph,  douce  man,  know  what 
that  simple  statement  meant  to  us.  The  head- 
waters of  Darby!  Darby  creek,  and  its  younger 
brother  Cobb's  creek,  were  the  Abana  and  Phar- 
par  of  our  youth.  We  were  nourished  first  of  all 
on  Cobb's,  where  we  had  our  first  swim  and 
caught  our  first  tadpoles  and  conducted  our  first 
search  for  buried  treasure  (and  also  smelt  our  first 
skunk  cabbage).  Then,  in  our  teens,  we  ranged 
farther  afield  and  learned  the  way  to  Darby,  by 
whose  crystal  waters  we  used  to  fry  bacon  and 
read  R.  L.  S.  There  will  never  be  any  other  stream 
quite  as  dear  to  our  heart. 

Until  the  other  evening  at  the  Caliph's  we  had 
not  seen  the  water  of  Darby  creek  for  ten  years; 
not  such  a  long  time,  perhaps,  as  some  reckon 
these  matters,  but  quite  long  enough.  And  our 
mind  runs  back  with  unrestrained  enthusiasm  to 
the  days  when  we  lived  only  two  miles  away  from 
that  delicious  stream.  Darby  creek  is  associated 
in  our  mind  with  a  saw  and  cider  mill  that  used 
to  stand — and  very  likely  still  stands — where  the 
creek  crosses  the  West  Chester  pike.  To  that  ad- 
mirable spot,  in  the  warm  blue  haze  of  an  October 
afternoon,  certain  young  men  used  to  tramp. 
While  the  whirling  blades  of  the  sawmill  screamed 
through  green  logs,  these  care-free  innocents  used 


194  DARBY  CREEK 

to  sit  round  a  large  vat  where  the  juice  of  fresh 
apples  came  trickling  through  some  sort  of  burlap 
squeezing  coils,  and  where  fat  and  groggy  wasps 
buzzed  and  tottered  and  expired  in  rapture.  These 
youths  (who  should  not  be  blamed,  for  indeed  they 
had  few  responsibilities  and  cares)  would  ply  the 
flagon  with  diligence,  merrily  toasting  the  trolleys 
that  hummed  by  on  the  way  to  West  Chester. 
We  will  not  give  away  their  names,  for  they  are 
now  demure  and  respected  merchants  and  lawyers 
and  members  of  Rotary  clubs  and  stock  exchanges. 
But  we  remember  one  of  these  who  was  notably 
susceptible  to  cider.  On  the  homeward  path,  as  he 
flourished  his  intellect  broadcast  and  quoted 
Maeterlinck  and  Bliss  Carman,  he  was  induced  by 
his  comrades  to  crawl  inside  a  large  terra-cotta 
pipe  that  lay  by  the  roadside.  Just  how  this  act 
of  cozening  was  accomplished  we  forget;  perhaps 
it  was  a  wager  to  see  whether  he,  being  proud  of 
his  slender  figure,  was  slim  enough  to  eel  through 
the  tube.  At  any  rate,  he  vanished  inside.  The 
pipe  lay  at  the  top  of  a  gentle  hill,  and  for  his 
companions  it  was  the  work  of  an  inspired  moment 
to  seize  the  cylinder  and  set  it  rolling  down  the 
grade.  Merrily  it  revolved  for  a  hundred  feet  or 
more,  at  high  velocity,  and  culbutted  into  a  ditch. 
The  dizzied  victim  emerged  at  length,  quoting 
Rabelais. 

The  mile  and  a  half  along  the  creek  above  this 
sawmill — up  to  where  an  odd  little  branch  railroad 
crosses  the  stream  on  a  tottery  trestle  and  Ithan 


DARBY  CREEK  195 

creek  runs  in — was  the  pleasure  haunt  best  known 
to  us.  It  was  approached  through  Coopertown, 
that  rustic  settlement  which  the  Bryn  Mawr  squire 
has  recently  turned  into  a  Tom  Tiddler's  ground. 
Across  stubble  fields  and  down  an  enchanting 
valley  carpeted  with  moss  we  scoured  on  many  and 
many  an  afternoon,  laden  with  the  rudiments  of  a 
meal.  There  was  said  to  be  a  choleric  farmer  with 
a  shotgun  and  an  angry  collie  on  the  western  marge 
of  the  stream,  and  it  was  always  a  matter  of  cour- 
age to  send  over  an  envoy  (chosen  by  lot)  to  bag 
a  few  ears  of  corn  for  roasting.  But  for  our  own 
part  we  never  encountered  this  enemy,  though 
Mifflin  once  came  throbbing  back  empty-handed 
and  pale-faced,  reporting  that  a  charge  of  lead 
had  sung  past  his  ears.  Above  a  small  dam  the 
creek  backed  up  to  a  decent  depth,  five  feet  or  so 
of  cool  green  water,  and  here  bathing  was  con- 
ducted in  the  ancient  Greek  manner.  There  were 
sun-warmed  fence  rails  nearby  for  basking,  and 
then  a  fire  would  be  built  and  vittles  mobilized. 
Tobacco  pouches  were  emptied  out  into  one  com- 
mon store,  and  by  the  time  this  was  smoked  out 
a  white  moonlight  would  be  spilling  over  the 
autumn  fields. 

We  grew  so  fond  of  this  section  of  our  Abana 
that  we  never  explored  the  full  length  of  the 
stream.  It  would  be  a  lovely  day's  jaunt,  we 
imagine,  to  set  out  from  Darby  (where  Cobb's 
creek  joins  Darby  Creek)  and  walk  up  the  little 
river  to  its  source  at  Daylesford.  (The  original 


196  DARBY  CREEK 

Daylesford,  by  the  way,  is  also  made  lovely  by 
the  only  other  stripling  stream  that  competes 
with  Darby  in  our  heart.  This  is  the  delicious 
Evenlode,  an  upper  twig  of  the  Thames.)  It  would 
be  about  twenty  miles,  which  is  a  just  distance  for 
a  walker  who  likes  to  study  the  scenery  as  he  goes. 
Through  the  greater  part  of  the  trail  the  stream 
trots  through  open  farming  country,  with  old 
mills  here  and  there — paper  mills,  flour  mills  and 
our  famous  shrine  of  sawdust  and  cider.  The  lower 
waters,  from  Darby  down  to  Tinicum  Island  and 
the  mouth  at  Essington,  would  probably  be  less 
walkable.  We  suspect  them  of  being  marshy, 
though  we  speak  only  by  the  map.  Mr.  Browning, 
we  remember,  wrote  a  poem  about  a  bishop  who 
ordered  his  tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's.  We,  if  we  had 
a  chance  to  lay  out  any  blue-prints  of  our  final 
rolltop,  would  like  to  be  the  Colyumist  who  ordered 
his  tomb  by  Darby  creek,  and  not  too  far  away 
from  that  cider  mill.  And  let  no  one  think  that  it 
is  a  stream  of  merely  sentimental  interest.  Hog 
Island,  as  all  will  grant,  is  a  place  of  national  im- 
portance. And  what  is  Hog  Island,  after  all? 
Only  the  delta  of  Darby  creek. 


DARBY  REVISITED  197 


DARBY  REVISITED 

THE  Soothsayer  owns  a  car,  and  tools  passion- 
ately about  the  country,  revisiting  the  vistas  and 
glimpses  that  he  thinks  particularly  lovely.  But 
he  is  a  stubborn  partisan  of  such  beauty  spots  as 
he  has  himself  discovered,  and  bitterly  reluctant 
to  concede  any  glamour  to  places  he  hasn't  visited. 
For  a  long  time  he  has  heard  us  raving  about 
Darby  creek,  and  always  asserted  furiously  that 
we  had  never  seen  a  certain  road  up  Norristown 
way  that  was  (he  said)  a  far,  far  better  thing  than 
any  place  we  would  be  likely  to  know  about.  But 
the  other  evening,  somewhat  stirred  by  our  piteous 
babble  about  the  old  cider  mill  we  hadn't  visited 
for  ten  years,  he  got  out  his  'bus  and  we  set  forth. 

We  went  out  along  the  West  Chester  pike,  and 
the  manner  of  the  Soothsayer  was  subtly  super- 
cilious. All  the  way  out  from  Sixty-ninth  street 
the  road  is  in  bad  condition,  and  as  he  nursed  his 
handsome  vehicle  over  the  bumps  we  could  see 
that  the  Soothsayer  thought  (though  too  polite  to 
say  so)  that  we  were  leading  him  into  a  very  be- 
draggled and  ill-assorted  region.  Another  very 
sinister  rebuke  was  that  he  had  left  up  the  canopy 
top  over  the  car,  although  it  was  a  serene  and  lucid 
evening,  flushed  with  quiet  sunset.  This  seemed 
to  imply  that  any  tract  of  country  we  would  lead 
him  to  would  hardly  be  worth  examining  carefully. 
As  we  passed  by  the  university  astronomical  obser- 


198 DARBY  REVISITED 

vatory  he  made  a  last  attempt  to  divert  us  from 
the  haven  of  our  desire.  He  suggested  that  we 
both  go  in  and  have  a  look  at  the  moon  through 
the  big  telescope.  As  it  was  then  broad  and  sunny 
daylight  we  treated  this  absurd  project  with  con- 
tempt. 

Down  a  steep  winding  hill,  and  we  came  upon 
the  historic  spot  with  delightful  suddenness.  Our 
heart  was  uplifted.  There  it  was,  unchanged,  the 
old  gray  building  standing  among  trees,  with  the 
clank  and  grind  of  the  water-wheels,  the  yellow 
dapple  of  level  sun  upon  the  western  wall. 

But  what  was  this?  Under  the  porch-roof  was  a 
man  bending  over  iron  plates,  surrounded  by  a 
dazzle  of  pale  blue  light.  He  was  using  an  electric 
welder,  and  the  groan  of  a  dynamo  sounded  from 
the  interior  of  the  old  mill.  "It's  probably  a 
garage  now,"  said  the  Soothsayer,  "most  of  these 
old  places  are." 

But  that  was  the  Soothsayer's  last  flash  of 
cynicism,  for  in  another  moment  the  spell  of  the 
place  had  disarmed  him.  We  approached,  and  it 
seemed  to  us  there  was  something  familiar  in  the 
face  of  the  man  operating  the  welder,  as  he  watched 
his  dazzling  blue  flame  through  a  screen.  It  was 
Mr.  Flounders,  who  has  run  the  old  mill  for  going 
on  thirty  years,  and  who  used  to  preside  at  the 
cider  press  in  days  gone  by,  when  we  had  many  a 
pull  at  his  noble  juices.  But  he  hasn't  made  any 
cider  for  several  years  he  told  us ;  the  sawmill  shed 
is  unused,  and  the  old  mill  itself  is  being  fitted  up 


DARBY  REVISITED 199 

with  ice-making  machinery.  He  says  he  went  out 
West  for  a  while,  but  he  came  back  to  Darby 
creek  in  the  end.  We  don't  blame  him.  The  spell 
of  that  enchanting  spot  may  well  keep  its  hold  on 
all  who  have  ever  loved  it. 

The  Soothsayer  and  his  passenger  got  out  their 
pipes  and  brooded  a  while,  watching  the  green 
swift  water  of  the  mill  race;  the  sunny  flicker  of 
the  creek  below  as  it  darts  on  its  way  through  the 
meadows;  the  great  oak  tree  steeped  in  sunlight, 
and  the  old  millstones  that  still  lie  about  by  the 
front  door.  Inside  the  building  the  wooden 
beams  and  levers  and  grooved  wheels  are  just  as 
they  were  when  the  place  was  built  as  a  flour  and 
feed  mill,  in  1837.  The  woodwork  still  has  that 
clean,  dusty  gloss  that  is  characteristic  of  a  flour 
mill.  By  the  sawing  shed  lie  a  number  of  great 
logs,  admirable  site  for  a  quiet  smoke.  The  Sooth- 
sayer, tremendously  impressed  by  this  time,  wan- 
dered about  with  us  and  listened  kindly  to  all  our 
spasms  of  reminiscence.  We  both  agreed  that  the 
old  mill,  dozing  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  pale  and 
tremulous  shimmer  of  blue  light  in  the  porch 
where  Mr.  Flounders  was  working,  was  a  fit  sub- 
ject for  some  artist's  brush. 

We  did  not  fail  to  admire  the  remarkable  old 
house  across  the  road,  where  Mr.  Flounders  lives. 
It  is  built  in  three  portions:  a  wooden  lean-to,  a 
very  ancient  section  of  whitewashed  logs  (which 
must  be  some  200  years  old)  and  then  the  largest 
part  of  the  dappled  stone  of  various  colors  so 


200 THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 

familiar  to  Pennsylvania  ramblers.  Nothing  can 
be  more  delightful  in  the  rich  tint  of  afternoon 
light  than  that  medley  of  brown,  gray,  yellow  and 
ochre  stonework.  We  pointed  out  the  little  side 
road  that  we  were  to  follow,  running  up  the  valley 
of  the  creek,  past  reddening  apple  orchards  and 
along  the  meadows  past  the  swimming  pool.  And 
then  the  Soothsayer  paid  us  a  genuine  compliment. 
"Let's  take  down  the  top,"  said  he.  "Then  we 
can  really  see  something!" 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 

Two  FRIENDS,  who  may  be  called  for  present  pur- 
poses Messrs.  Madrigal  and  Doggerel,  dismounted 
from  the  West  Chester  trolley  at  the  crossing  of 
Darby  creek.  Madrigal  rolled  a  cigarette.  Dog- 
gerel filled  a  pipe.  They  paid  their  respects  to  the 
old  sawmill  and  Mr.  Flounders,  its  presiding  deity. 
Then  they  set  off  for  a  tramp  up  the  valley. 

It  was  a  genial  afternoon,  after  a  night  of  thrash- 
ing rain  and  gale.  The  air  was  meek  and  placid; 
the  sky  a  riotous  blue.  After  the  tumultuous  wash- 
ing of  the  storm  all  the  heavenly  linen  was  hung 
out  to  dry,  bulging  and  ballooning  in  snowy  clots 
along  the  upper  dome.  The  tents  of  creekside 
campers  were  sodden,  and  great  branches  lay 
scattered  on  the  meadows,  wrenched  down  by  the 
wind.  By  Mr.  Sanderson's  farm  at  Brookthorpe  a 
scoutmaster  was  breaking  camp,  preparing  to  take 
his  boys  home.  They  had  only  been  there  four 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY  201 

•^ 

days  and  the  grieved  urchins  stood  in  miserable 
silence.  The  hurricane  of  the  night  before  had 
nearly  washed  them  away,  and  as  everything  was 
so  wet  their  leader  feared  to  let  them  sleep  on  the 
ground.  The  boys  were  heartbroken,  but  the 
scoutmaster  said  sagely:  "I'd  rather  have  the 
boys  mad  at  me  than  their  mothers." 

In  spite  of  the  recent  'downpour,  the  walking 
was  admirable.  Roads  were  damp,  easy  under- 
foot, free  from  dust.  Madrigal  and  Doggerel  were 
gay  at  heart.  They  scrambled  up  the  embank- 
ment of  the  deserted  Delaware  County  Railroad, 
which  is  the  most  direct  pathway  toward  the  head- 
waters of  Darby.  It  is  possible  to  go  along  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  but  underbrush  was  still 
drenched,  and  Mr.  Sanderson  uttered  cryptic 
warning  of  a  certain  bull.  On  the  grass-grown 
track  of  the  antique  railroad,  treading  gingerly 
over  worm-eaten  wooden  trestles,  the  explorer  en- 
joys perfect  sunny  tranquillity.  It  is  only  five 
miles  from  the  city  limits,  but  one  moves  in  the 
heart  of  bird-song  and  ancient  solitude.  One 
freight  train  a  day  is  the  traffic  of  the  forgotten 
line,  and  probably  the  director  general  of  railroads 
never  heard  of  it.  It  would  not  be  surprising  to 
meet  Rip  Van  Winkle  pacing  thoughtfully  along 
the  mouldering  ties.  And  as  it  is  raised  high  above 
the  valley,  the  walker  gains  a  fair  prospect  over 
the  green  country  of  Darbyland.  The  creek,  swol- 
len with  rain,  brawled  rapidly  along  its  winding 
shallows.  Cattle  munched  in  the  meadows.  Gold- 


202  THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 

enrod  was  minting  its  gold,  and  a  first  faint  sug- 
gestion of  autumn  breathed  in  the  sleepy  air. 
Madrigal  tore  off  his  linen  collar,  stuffed  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  fell  to  quoting  Keats.  Doggerel,  hav- 
ing uttered  some  painful  words  about  the  old  cider 
traffic,  now  evaporated,  Madrigal  bestirred  his 
memory  of  the  Ode  to  Autumn.  "Or  by  a  cider 
press,  with  patient  look,  Thou  watchest  the  last 
oozings,  hours  by  hours."  Madrigal  is  a  man  of 
well-stored  mind,  and  as  the  wayfarers  tripped 
nimbly  along  the  ties,  where  wild  flowers  em- 
broider the  old  cuttings  and  deserted  farms  stand 
crumbling  along  knotted  apple  trees,  he  beguiled 
the  journey  with  varied  speculation  and  discourse. 
At  a  long-abandoned  station  known  as  Foxcroft 
— which  is  now  only  a  quarry,  and  has  the  air  of 
some  mining  settlement  of  the  far  West — the  walk- 
ers began  to  understand  something  of  the  secret  of 
this  region.  It  is  a  fox-hunting  country  (according 
to  the  map,  the  next  station  on  this  mystic  line  was 
called  The  Hunt)  and  from  here  on  they  caught 
glimpses  of  the  life  of  that  picturesque  person 
known  as  the  "country  gentleman."  There  were 
jumping  barriers  for  horses  erected  in  the  mea- 
dows; rows  of  kennels,  and  a  red-cheeked  squire 
with  a  riding  crop  and  gaiters  striding  along  the 
road.  Along  that  rolling  valley,  with  whispering 
cornfields  and  fair  white  mansions  lingering  among 
trees,  is  the  tint  and  contour  of  rural  England, 
long-settled,  opulent  and  serene.  In  one  thing 
only  does  it  lack  English  charm:  there  are  no  old 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 203 

ale-houses  along  the  way.  No  King's  Arms  or 
Waggon  and  Horses  or  Jolly  Ploughboy  where  one 
may  sit  on  a  bench  well-polished  by  generations  of 
corduroyed  hindquarters  and  shut  out  the  smiling 
horizon  with  a  tankard's  rim.  "Oh  land  of  free- 
dom!" cried  Madrigal,  ironically,  clucking  his 
tongue  upon  a  drouthy  palate. 

From  Foxcroft  there  is  a  tempting  blue  vista  up 
a  tributary  valley  toward  Newtown  Square,  which 
would  be  well  worth  exploring;  but  Madrigal  and 
Doggerel  turned  away  through  another  covered 
bridge  in  order  to  keep  along  the  trend  of  Darby. 
A  detour  along  the  road  brought  them  back  to  the 
creek  at  a  magnificent  stone  bridge  of  three  arches. 
The  man  who  designed  that  bridge  was  a  true 
artist,  and  had  studied  the  old  English  bridges. 
And  at  this  corner  stands  a  curious  old  house  bear- 
ing the  inscription  Ludwig's  Lust  (Ludwig's  Pleas- 
ure) Built  1774,  Remodelled  1910.  As  the  pedes- 
trians stood  admiring,  a  car  drove  up  to  the  door, 
and  the  hapless  Doggerel  created  some  irritation 
by  hopefully  asking  one  of  the  motorists  if  the 
place  were  an  inn. 

After  Ludwig's  Lust  came  the  most  enchanting 
stretch  of  the  journey.  The  road  runs  close  by  the 
creek,  which  foams  along  a  stony  course  under  an 
aisle  of  trees.  Where  Wigwam  Run  joins  the  creek 
is  a  group  of  farm  buildings  and  a  wayside  spring 
of  perfect  water.  It  was  sorry  to  see  a  beautiful 
old  outhouse  of  dappled  stonework  being  pickaxed 
into  rubble.  At  this  point  is  the  fork  of  Darby  and 
14 


204 THE  HAPPY  VALLEY 

Little  Darby.  An  old  deserted  mill  is  buried  in 
greenery,  the  stones  furred  with  moss.  Just  be- 
yond, a  little  road  dips  off  to  the  left,  crossing  both 
branches  of  the  stream.  Here,  where  Little  Darby 
churns  cascading  among  great  boulders  and  tiny 
shelves  of  sand,  one  might  well  be  in  some  moun- 
tain elbow  of  the  Poconos.  Madrigal  and  Doggerel 
gazed  tenderly  on  this  shady  cavern  of  wood  and 
water.  If  it  had  been  an  hour  earlier,  with  the  sun- 
light strong  upon  these  private  grottoes,  a  bathe 
would  have  been  in  order.  But  it  was  already 
drawing  late. 

The  Berwyn  road,  on  which  the  travelers  now 
proceeded,  is  full  of  surprises.  Great  houses  crown 
the  hilltops,  with  rows  of  slender  poplars  silhou- 
etted against  the  sky.  Here  and  there  a  field  of 
tawny  grain  lifts  a  smooth  shoulder  against  blue 
heaven.  A  little  drinking  fountain  on  a  downward 
grade  drops  a  tinkling  dribble  of  cold  water  from  a 
carved  lion's  mouth.  Among  old  willows  and  but- 
tonwoods  stand  comely  farmhouses — one  beside 
the  road  is  tinted  a  rich  salmon  pink.  A  real  estate 
agent's  sign  at  the  entrance  to  a  fine  tract  says, 
''For  Sale,  47  Acres,  with  Runing  Water."  The 
walkers  thought  they  discerned  a  message  in  that. 
For  a  rune  means  a  mark  of  magic  significance,  a 
whisper,  a  secret  counsel.  And  the  chiming  water 
of  Darby  has  its  own  whispers  of  secret  counsel  as 
it  runs  its  merry  way,  a  laughing  little  river  that 
preaches  sermons  unawares. 

In  the  meadows  near  Old  St.  David's  Church — 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY  205 

built  when  Philadelphia  itself  was  hardly  more 
than  a  village — are  Guernsey  calves,  soft  as  a  plush 
cushion,  with  bright  topaz  eyes.  Madrigal  told 
how  he  had  written  a  poem  about  Old  St.  David's 
when  he  was  sixteen,  in  which  he  described  the 
"kine"  grazing  by  the  stream,  and  in  which  (after 
the  manner  of  poets  in  their  teens)  he  besought 
merciful  Death  to  come  and  take  him.  Death,  one 
supposes,  was  sorely  tempted,  but  happily  re- 
frained from  reaping  the  tender  bardling. 

In  the  quiet  graveyard  of  Old  St.  David's  the 
travelers  halted  a  while,  to  see  the  grave  of  An- 
thony Wayne  and  admire  the  thin  trailers  of  the 
larches  swinging  in  the  golden  flood  of  late  sun- 
light that  slanted  down  the  valley.  It  was  6 
o'clock,  and  they  were  beginning  to  doubt  their 
ability  to  reach  their  destination  on  time.  A  party 
of  motorists  were  just  leaving  the  church,  and 
both  Madrigal  and  Doggerel  loitered  pointedly  by 
the  gate  in  hopes  of  a  lift.  But  no  such  fortune. 
So  they  set  valiantly  upon  the  last  leg  of  the  after- 
noon. In  a  shady  bend  of  the  road  came  a  merry 
motor  zooming  along  and  Doggerel's  friend,  Jarden 
Guenther,  at  the  wheel.  Mr.  Guenther  was  doubt- 
less amazed  to  see  Doggerel  in  this  remote  spot, 
but  he  was  going  the  other  way,  and  passed  with 
a  cheerful  halloo.  Then,  by  the  old  Defense  Signal 
tree  on  the  Paoli  road,  came  a  flivver,  which  res- 
cued the  two  plodders  and  took  them  two  miles  or 
so  on  their  way.  By  the  Tredyffrin  golf  course 
they  were  set  down  before  a  winding  byway, 


206 OUR  OLD  DESK 

which  they  followed  with  tingling  shanks  and 
hearts  full  of  achievement. 

A  shady  lane  by  the  now  stripling  Darby 
brought  them  to  a  quiet  pool  under  leaning  wil- 
lows, and  a  silver  gush  of  water  over  a  small  dam 
beneath  which  a  bronze  Venus  bathes  herself 
thoughtfully.  Madrigal  wore  the  face  of  one  en- 
tering into  joy  rarely  vouchsafed  to  battered 
poets.  Doggerel,  in  his  paltry  way,  was  likewise 
of  blithe  cheer.  Through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  they 
scaled  a  knoll  and  reached  their  haven.  And  here 
they  found  what  virtuous  walkers  have  ever  found 
at  the  end  of  an  innocent  journey — a  bath,  a  beer, 
and  a  blessing. 


OUR  OLD  DESK 

WE  see  that  there  has  been  a  fire  at  a  second- 
hand furniture  warehouse  on  Arch  street.  We 
think  we  can  offer  an  explanation  for  the  blaze. 
Our  old  desk  was  there. 

That  desk  was  always  a  hoodoo.  Last  autumn, 
when  we  gave  up  commuting  and  moved  into 
town,  we  had  to  get  rid  of  some  of  our  goods  in 
order  to  squeeze  ourselves  into  an  apartment.  The 
very  first  thing  we  parted  with  was  our  old  desk. 
We  did  not  tell  genial  Mr.  P.,  the  dealer  in  second- 
hand furniture,  that  the  piece  was  a  Jonah,  for  we 
were  afraid  it  would  knock  fifty  cents  or  so  off  his 
offer,  but  now  we  feel  rather  shamefaced  for  not 
having  warned  him. 


OUR  OLD  DESK 207 

We  bought  the  desk  before  we  were  married,  at 
a  department  store  in  New  York.  It  was  almost 
the  last  article  that  store,  a  famous  one  in  its  day, 
got  paid  for.  Soon  after  selling  it  the  house  failed. 

We  moved  the  desk  out  to  a  cottage  in  the  coun- 
try. We  sat  down  in  front  of  it.  We  didn't  know 
it  then,  but  we  are  convinced  now  there  was  some 
evil  genius  in  it.  It  must  have  been  built  of  slip- 
pery elm,  full  of  knots,  cut  in  the  dark  of  the  moon 
while  a  brindle  cat  was  mewing.  The  drawers 
stuck  once  a  week  and  had  to  be  pared  down  with 
a  j  ack-knif e.  We  sat  at  that  desk  night  after  night, 
with  burning  visions  of  literary  immortality.  We 
wrote  poems  that  no  one  would  buy.  We  wrote 
stories  that  gradually  became  soiled  and  wrinkled 
around  the  folds  of  the  manuscript.  We  wrote 
pamphlets  eulogizing  hotels  and  tried  to  palm 
them  off  on  the  managers  as  advertising  booklets. 
The  hotels  accepted  the  booklets  and  went  out  of 
business  before  paying  for  them.  Sitting  at  that 
desk  we  composed  sparkling  essays  for  a  news- 
paper in  Toledo,  and  after  the  paper  had  printed  a 
bunch  of  them  we  wrote  to  the  editor  and  asked 
him  how  about  a  check.  He  replied  that  he  did  not 
understand  we  were  writing  that  stuff  for  actual 
money.  He  was  quite  grieved  to  have  misunder- 
stood us  so.  He  thought  we  were  merely  writing 
them  for  the  pleasure  of  uplifting  the  hearts  of 
Toledo. 

There  was  another  odd  thing  about  that  desk. 
There  was  some  drowsy  sirup  in  its  veins.  Perhaps 


208 OUR  OLD  DESK 

the  wood  hadn't  been  properly  seasoned.  Anyway, 
we  couldn't  keep  awake  while  sitting  at  it.  Night 
after  night,  assiduously,  while  the  jolly  old  Long 
Island  mosquitoes  hummed  in  through  the  open 
windows  like  Liberty  motors,  we  would  begin  to 
scribe.  After  an  hour  or  so  we  would  always  fall 
asleep  over  the  tawny  keys  of  our  ancient  type- 
writer. It  may  be  that  the  trouble  lay  partly  in 
the  typing  bus,  for  we  were  so  inexpert  that  we 
couldn't  pound  rapidly  enough  to  keep  ourself 
awake.  We  remember  memorizing  the  letters  on 
the  first  row  of  keys  in  a  vain  hope  that  if  we 
could  say  qwertyuiop  off  by  heart  it  would  help  us 
to  move  along  faster,  but  it  did  no  good.  We 
started  a  novel,  but  after  six  months  of  wrestling 
we  decided  that  as  long  as  we  worked  at  that  desk 
we  would  never  get  it  done.  We  tried  writing  on 
the  kitchen  table,  in  front  of  the  stove — it  was 
winter  by  that  time — and  we  got  the  novel  done 
in  no  time. 

When  we  moved  to  Marathon,  the  van  contain- 
ing that  desk  broke  down  near  a  novelty  factory 
in  Trenton.  Probably  that  novelty  factory  was  its 
home  and  the  old  flat-top  had  nostalgia.  In  order 
to  get  the  desk  into  the  Marathon  house  its  top 
had  to  be  unscrewed  and  the  screws  were  lost. 
After  that,  whenever  we  were  trying  to  write  a 
poem  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  when  we  got 
aroused  in  the  heat  of  composition  and  shifted 
round  on  our  chair,  the  whole  top  of  the  desk 


OUR  OLD  DESK 209 

would  slide  off  and  the  inkwell  would  cascade  on 
to  the  floor. 

There  was  one  drawer  in  that  desk  that  we  look 
back  on  with  particular  affection.  We  had  been 
asked  by  a  publisher  in  Chicago  to  contribute  the 
section  on  Etiquette  for  a  Household  Encyclo- 
pedia that  was  to  be  issued.  That  was  about  1914, 
if  we  remember  rightly.  We  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  Etiquette.  The  article  was  to  deal 
with  the  origin  and  history  of  social  usages,  coming 
down  to  the  very  latest  thing  in  table  manners, 
accepting  and  declining  invitations,  specimen  let- 
ters dealing  with  every  social  emergency,  such  as 
being  invited  to  go  to  a  clambake,  a  wedding  or 
the  dedication  of  a  sanitary  dog-pound.  We  had 
an  uproarious  time  compiling  the  essay.  It  was 
to  contain  at  least  fifteen  thousand  words  and  we 
were  to  get  fifty  dollars  for  it.  In  the  chapter  on 
specimen  letters  we  let  ourself  go  without  restraint. 
In  these  specimen  letters  we  amused  ourself  by 
using  the  names  of  all  our  friends.  We  chuckled  to 
think  of  their  amazement  on  finding  themselves 
enshrined  in  this  Household  Encyclopedia,  writing 
demure  and  stilted  little  regrets  or  acceptances  for 
imaginary  functions. 

The  manuscript  of  this  article  had  to  be  mailed 
to  Chicago  on  a  certain  date  or  the  fifty  dollars 
would  be  forfeit.  Late  the  night  before  we  toiled 
at  our  desk  putting  the  final  touches  on  The  Eti- 
quette of  Courtship  and  Etiquette  for  Young 
Girls  at  Boarding  School.  Never  having  been  a 


210  OUR  OLD  DESK 

young  girl  at  boarding  school,  our  ideas  were 
largely  theoretical,  but  still  we  thought  they  were 
based  on  sound  sense  and  a  winsome  instinct  as  to 
comely  demeanor.  We  threw  our  heart  into  the 
task  and  felt  that  Louisa  Alcott  herself  could  not 
have  counseled  more  becoming  decorum.  It  was 
long  after  midnight  when  we  finished  the  last  reply 
of  a  young  girl  to  the  young  man  who  had  called 
her  by  her  first  name  three  months  before  we  felt 
he  had  any  right  to  do  so.  We  put  these  last  two 
sections  of  the  manuscript  into  a  drawer  of  the 
desk,  to  give  them  a  final  reading  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

Late  that  night  there  came  a  damp  fog,  one  of 
those  pearly  Long  Island  fogs.  The  desk  drawer 
swelled  up  and  retired  from  active  life.  Contain- 
ing its  precious  freight,  it  was  immovable.  We 
stood  the  desk  upside  down,  we  tugged  frantically 
at  it,  we  hammered  and  chiseled  and  strove  but  in 
vain.  The  hour  for  mailing  the  copy  approached. 
At  last  baffled,  we  had  to  speed  to  a  mail-box  and 
post  the  treatise  on  Etiquette  without  those  two 
chapters.  The  publisher,  we  knew,  would  not 
miss  them,  though  to  us  they  contained  the  cream 
of  our  whole  philosophy  of  politeness,  containing 
our  prized  aphorisms  on  Consideration  for  Others 
The  Basis  of  Good  Manners. 

We  were  never  able  to  get  that  drawer  open 
again.  When  we  sold  the  desk  to  Mr.  P.  it  was 
still  tightly  stuck.  Some  months  ago  we  were 
passing  along  Arch  street,  just  under  the  Reading 


CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN      211 

Railway  viaduct,  and  we  saw  a  familiar  sight  on 
the  pavement.  It  was  our  old  desk,  covered  with 
dust  and  displayed  for  sale,  but  unmistakable  to 
our  recognitory  eye.  Turtively  we  approached  it 
and  gave  the  well-known  bottom  drawer  a  yank. 
It  was  still  jammed,  and  presumably  the  manu- 
script was  still  within.  We  thought  for  a  moment 
of  buying  the  old  thing  again,  splitting  it  open  with 
an  ax  and  getting  out  our  literary  offspring.  But 
we  didn't.  And  now  this  fire  has  come  along  and 
undoubtedly  the  desk  perished  in  the  flames.  If 
only  that  chapter  on  Young  Girls  at  Boarding 
School  could  have  been  rescued  ....  We 
have  a  daughter  of  our  own  now,  and  it  might 
have  given  us  some  hints  on  how  to  bring  her  up. 


CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN 
IT  would  be  a  seemly  thing,  perhaps,  if  candi- 
dates for  political  office  were  to  take  a  private  trip 
up  the  tower  of  the  City  Hall  and  spend  an  hour 
or  so  in  solitary  musing.  Looking  out  over  the 
great  expanse  of  men  and  buildings  they  might 
get  a  vision  of  Philadelphia  that  would  be  more 
valuable  to  them  than  the  brisk  bickering  business 
of  "showing  each  other  up." 

Under  the  kindly  guidance  of  Mr.  Kellett,  the 
superintendent  of  elevators  in  the  City  Hall,  I  was 
permitted  to  go  up  to  the  little  gallery  at  the  base 
of  the  statue.  A  special  elevator  runs  up  inside  the 
tower,  starting  from  the  seventh  floor.  Through 


CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN 

great  echoing  spaces,  crossed  with  girders  and  lit- 
tered with  iron  work  which  the  steeplejacks  have 
taken  down  from  the  summit  for  painting  and  re- 
pairs, the  small  car  rises  slowly  into  the  top  of  the 
dome,  over  500  feet  above  the  street.  Then  you 
step  out  onto  the  platform.  Along  the  railing  are 
the  big  arc  lights  that  illuminate  the  pinnacle  at 
night.  Over  your  head  is  the  projecting  square  toe 
of  William  Penn,  his  sturdy  stockinged  legs,  his 
coat-tails  and  outstretched  right  hand  as  he  stands 
looking  toward  the  treaty  ground.  He  loved  the 
"fruits  of  solitude,"  and  he  has  them  here.  He  is 
not  often  disturbed,  save  by  the  nimble  acrobats 
who  swing  in  a  bosun's  chair  at  their  unenvied 
tasks.  A  bosun's  chair,  let  one  add,  is  only  a  plank, 
not  much  bigger  than  a  shingle,  noosed  in  midair 
in  the  loop  of  a  rope. 

The  street-dweller  knows  curiously  little  of  the 
atmospheric  conditions.  The  groundling  would 
have  said  that  yesterday  was  a  day  of  crystal 
clearness.  Yet  from  the  top  of  the  tower,  even  in 
the  frank  morning  sunlight,  the  view  was  strangely 
restricted.  The  distances  were  veiled  in  summer 
haze.  Camden,  beyond  the  shoreline,  was  a  bluish 
blur;  even  League  Island  was  not  visible.  On  the 
west  the  view  faded  away  into  the  greenery  of 
Overbrook,  and  northward  the  eye  did  not  reach 
to  the  suburbs  at  all.  Enclosed  by  this  softened 
dimness,  the  city  seemed  even  vaster  than  it  is. 

At  that  height  the  clamor  of  the  city  is  dulled  to 
a  gentle  mumble,  pierced  by  the  groan  of  trolleys 


CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN      213 

and  the  sharp  yelps  of  motorcars  trundling  round 
the  Hall.  On  the  glittering  pathway  of  the  river 
ferries  and  tugs  were  sliding,  kicking  up  a  riffle  of 
white  foam  behind  them.  One  curious  and  ap- 
plaudable  feature  is  the  absence  of  smoke.  All  over 
the  roofs  of  the  city  float  little  plumes  and  wisps 
of  steam,  detaching  and  drifting  away  in  the  warm 
blue  shimmer  like  dissolving  feathers.  A  cool 
breeze  was  moving  in  from  over  the  Park,  where 
the  tall  columns  of  the  Smith  Memorial  were  rising 
over  a  sea  of  green.  The  Parkway  seen  from  above 
stands  out  as  the  most  notable  feature  of  Phila- 
delphia topography.  From  there,  too,  one  sees 
how  the  northeastern  corner  of  Broad  Street  Sta- 
tion cuts  into  the  line  of  the  Parkway,  and  wonders 
just  how  this  will  be  rectified. 

It  is  fascinating  to  lean  over  that  sunny  parapet 
and  watch  the  city  at  its  work.  Down  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Broad  and  Chestnut  I  could  see  a  truck 
loaded  with  rolls  of  paper,  drawn  by  three  horses, 
turning  into  Chestnut  street.  On  the  roof  of 
the  Wanamaker  store  was  a  party  of  sightseers, 
mostly  ladies,  going  round  with  a  guide.  Mr. 
Kellett  and  I  got  out  our  kerchiefs  and  gave  them 
a  wave.  In  a  moment  they  saw  us,  and  all  fluttered 
enthusiastic  response.  We  were  amused  to  notice 
one  lady  who  detached  herself  from  the  party  and 
went  darting  about  the  roof  in  a  most  original  and 
random  fashion.  From  our  eyrie  it  looked  rather 
as  though  she  was  going  to  take  a  canter  round  the 
running  track  on  the  top  of  the  store,  and  we 


214      CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN 

waited  patiently  to  see  what  she  was  up  to.  Then 
she  disappeared.  As  one  looks  over  the  flat  bare 
roofs  of  skyscrapers  it  seems  curious  that  so  few 
of  them  are  put  to  any  use.  Only  on  one  of  the 
cliffs  of  offices  could  I  see  any  attempt  at  beauty. 
This  was  on  the  roof  of  the  Finance  Building, 
where  there  are  three  tiny  grass  plots  and  a  little 
white  bench. 

It  is  possible  to  climb  up  through  William 
Penn's  left  leg  by  a  narrow  ladder,  dodging  among 
beams  and  girders  and  through  a  trap-door,  and  so 
up  to  the  brim  of  his  beaver.  I  was  keen  to  essay  it, 
but  Mr.  Kellett  discouraged  me  by  saying  a  suit 
of  overalls  was  necessary.  I  am  no  respecter  of 
garments,  but  I  did  not  press  the  point,  as  I  feared 
that  my  friendly  guide  might  still  think  I  had  a 
grenade  about  my  person,  and  was  yearning  for 
immortality  by  blowing  William's  head  off.  So 
we  compromised  by  going  down  to  see  the  inside 
of  the  huge  clock  dials,  and  the  ingenious  com- 
pressed air  devices  by  which  the  hands  are  moved 
every  thirty  seconds.  A  minute  space  on  each 
clock  face  is  an  arc  of  about  fourteen  inches,  so 
the  minute  hand  jumps  about  seven  inches  every 
half  minute.  In  a  quiet  room  at  the  base  of  the 
tower  are  the  two  master  clocks  that  control  the 
whole  mechanism.  They  are  very  beautiful  to 
watch,  and  it  is  interesting  to  see  that  they  were 
made  in  Germany,  by  Strasser  and  Rohde,  Glass- 
hutte,  Saxony.  Exact  noon  is  telegraphed  from 


CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN      215 

Washington  every  day  so  that  these  clocks  can  be 
kept  strictly  on  the  tick. 

If  we  were  a  city  of  mystics,  instead  of  a  city 
of  hustling  and  perturbed  business  men,  we  would 
elect  a  soothsayer  to  dwell  on  the  little  gallery 
below  William  Penn.  The  pleasantest  job  in  the 
world  has  always  been  that  of  an  oracle.  This 
soothsayer  would  be  wholly  aloof  from  the  passion 
of  the  streets.  (Passion,  said  William  Penn,  is  a 
sort  of  fever  in  the  mind,  which  always  leaves  us 
weaker  than  it  found  us.)  He  would  spend  his 
time  reading  the  "Fruits  of  Solitude"  and  would 
occasionally  scribble  messages  on  slips  of  paper, 
which  he  would  weight  with  marbles  and  throw 
overboard.  Those  who  found  these  precious  say- 
ings would  read  them  reverently,  and  go  on  about 
their  folly  undismayed.  Baskets  of  victuals  and 
raiment  would  occasionally  be  conveyed  to  this 
lofty  dreamer  by  humble  admirers.  On  his  windy 
perch  he  would  brood  lovingly  upon  the  great  city 
of  his  choice.  When  election  time  came  round  he 
would  throw  down  slips  telling  people  whom  to 
vote  for.  If  he  thought  (not  mincing  words)  that 
none  of  the  proposed  candidates  was  worth  a 
damn,  he  would  frown  down  forbiddingly,  and  the 
balloting  would  have  to  be  postponed  until  can- 
didates satisfactory  to  his  vision  had  been  put  for- 
ward. When  they  told  him  that  John  Jones  had 
hosts  of  friends,  scraps  of  paper  would  be  found 
in  the  City  Hall  courtyard  saying  "  It  is  the  friends 
of  mayors  who  make  all  the  trouble."  And  the 


216      CALLING  ON  WILLIAM  PENN 

people  would  marvel  greatly.  He  would  be  the 
only  completely  blissful  prophet  in  the  world,  as 
the  only  way  for  an  oracle  to  be  happy  is  to  put 
him  so  far  away  from  the  market-place  that  he 
can't  see  that  the  people  pay  no  attention  to  his 
utterances.  What  William  Penn  used  to  call  his 
"natural  candle,"  that  is  the  light  of  his  spirit, 
would  burn  with  a  cheerful  and  unguttered  radi- 
ance. Just  inside  the  door  that  leads  to  the  tower 
gallery  there  is  a  comfortable  meditative  armchair 
of  the  kind  usually  found  in  police  stations.  So 
perhaps  they  are  planning  to  have  just  such  an 
oracle. 

I  wandered  for  some  time  in  the  broad  corridors 
of  the  City  Hall,  which  smell  faintly  of  musky  dis- 
infectant. I  peered  into  the  district  attorney's  in- 
dictment department,  where  a  number  of  people 
were  gathered.  Occasionally  a  clerk  would  call  out 
names,  and  some  would  disappear  into  inner 
rooms.  Whether  they  were  plaintiffs  or  defendants 
I  could  not  conjecture.  In  the  calf-lined  alcoves  of 
the  law  library,  learned  men  were  reading  under 
green  lamps.  I  looked  uncomprehendingly  at  the 
signs  on  the  doors — Court  of  Common  Pleas,  Court 
of  Oyer  and  Terminer,  Orphans'  Court,  Delinquent 
Tax  Bureau,  Inspector  of  Nuisances.  All  this  com- 
plex machinery  that  keeps  the  city  in  order  makes 
the  layman  marvel  at  its  efficiency  and  its  appar- 
ent kindliness.  He  wants  to  do  something  horrible 
in  order  to  see  how  the  wheels  go  round.  He  feels 
a  little  guilty  not  to  have  committed  some  crime. 


MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB         217 


MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB 

A  LITTLE  girl — she  can't  have  been  more  than 
twelve  years  old — stood  up  gravely  and  said: 
"  The  meeting  will  please  come  to  order.  The  secre- 
tary will  read  the  minutes  of  the  last  meeting." 

The  gathering  of  small  females — some  ragged, 
some  very  trim,  ranging  in  age  from  eight  to  four- 
teen— sat  expectant.  A  child  in  a  clean  pink  dress 
with  neatly  braided  blonde  hair  advanced  seriously 
and  read  the  minutes  of  the  previous  meeting. 

"Are  there  any  corrections?"  said  the  president. 

There  were  none  and  the  meeting  proceeded  to 
business.  On  a  long  table  in  the  schoolroom  was  a 
large  laundry  basket,  a  small  quilted  mattress, 
sheets,  blankets  and  other  accessories.  There  was 
a  baby  there,  a  life-size  doll,  amazingly  realistic. 
The  business  of  the  meeting  was  the  discussion, 
under  the  guidance  of  Miss  Matilda  Needle,  the 
teacher,  of  the  proper  way  of  making  a  baby's  bed, 
putting  him  to  sleep  in  the  basket  and  ventilating 
the  room.  It  was  the  Little  Mothers'  League  of 
the  Vare  School,  on  Morris  street,  holding  its 
weekly  meeting. 

Miss  Needle  took  the  chair.  "I  saw  something 
the  other  day,"  she  said  to  the  children,  "that 
pleased  me  very  much.  I  was  coming  down  the 
street  and  I  saw  Elsie  Pulaski  holding  a  baby  like 
this.  (She  illustrated  by  picking  up  the  doll,  let- 
ting its  head  sag,  and  all  the  Little  Mothers  looked 


218        MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB 

very  grave.)  "I  was  about  to  speak  to  her  when 
Bertha  Fitz  ran  across  the  street  and  said  to  her: 
'  You  mustn't  hold  the  baby  like  that.  You'll  hurt 
him.'  And  Bertha  showed  her  the  right  way  to 
hold  him.  Now  can  any  of  you  show  me  the  way 
Bertha  did  it?" 

Thirty  small  arms  waved  frantically  in  the  air. 
There  was  a  furious  eagerness  to  show  how  the 
luckless  Elsie  should  have  held  her  baby  brother. 

"Well,  Mary,"  said  the  teacher,  "you  show  us 
how  the  baby  should  be  picked  up." 

Blushing  with  pride,  Mary  advanced  to  the 
table  and  with  infinite  care  inserted  one  arm  under 
the  large  doll.  But  in  her  excitement  she  made  a 
false  start.  She  used  the  right  arm  where  the  posi- 
tion of  the  artificial  infant  demanded  the  left. 
This  meant  that  her  other  arm  had  to  pass  diag- 
onally across  the  baby  in  an  awkward  way.  Imme- 
diately several  of  the  juvenile  audience  showed 
signs  of  professional  disgust.  Hands  vibrated  in 
air.  Another  member  of  the  Little  Mothers' 
League  was  called  upon,  and  poor  Mary  took  her 
seat  in  discomfiture. 

They  passed  to  another  topic.  One  of  the  mem- 
bers demonstrated  the  correct  way  of  making  the 
baby's  bed.  With  proud  correctness  she  disposed 
the  mattress,  the  rubber  sheeting,  the  sheets  and 
blankets,  showing  how  each  should  be  tucked  in, 
how  the  upper  sheet  should  be  turned  down  over 
the  top  of  the  blanket,  so  that  the  wool  would  not 


MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB        219 

irritate  the  baby's  chin.  The  others  watched  her 
with  the  severity  of  judges  on  the  bench. 

The  teacher  began  to  ask  questions. 

"Who  should  the  baby  sleep  with?"  she  said. 

One  very  small  girl,  carried  away  by  the  form 
of  the  question,  cried  out,  "His  mother!"  The 
others  waved  their  hands. 

"Well,  who  should  he  sleep  with?"  said  Miss 
Needle. 

"Himself!"  cried  several  triumphantly. 

"Why  should  he  sleep  by  himself?  Rosa,  you 
tell  us." 

Rosa  stood  up.  She  was  a  dark-eyed  little  crea- 
ture, with  hair  cropped  short — we  will  not  ask 
why.  Her  face  worked  with  the  excitement  of 
putting  her  thoughts  into  language. 

"  If  he  sleeps  with  his  mother  she  might  lay  on 
him  and  smother  him." 

They  all  seemed  to  shudder.  It  was  as  though 
the  unfortunate  infant  was  perishing  before  their 
very  eyes. 

The  Little  Mothers'  Leagues  are  groups  of 
small  girls,  ranging  in  age  from  eight  to  fourteen, 
who  are  being  taught  the  essentials  of  caring  for 
babies,  under  the  direction  of  the  Child  Federa- 
tion. By  the  kindness  of  the  Federation,  and  Miss 
O'Neill,  the  supervisor  of  public  school  play- 
grounds, I  was  privileged  to  visit  four  of  these 
classes  the  other  afternoon.  In  three  of  the 
schools  the  children  were  learning  how  to  put  the 
baby  to  bed;  in  one  they  were  sitting  around  a 


220        MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB 

small  bathtub  studying  the  technique  of  the 
baby's  bath.  Some  of  the  girls  had  brought  babies 
with  them,  for  almost  all  of  them  are  at  least  partly 
responsible  for  the  care  of  one  or  more  children. 
There  was  a  moving  pathos  in  the  gravity  with 
which  these  matrons  before  their  time  discussed 
the  problems  of  their  craft;  and  yet  it  was  also 
the  finest  kind  of  a  game  and  they  evidently  en- 
joyed it  heartily.  Many  of  them  come  from 
ignorant  homes  where  the  parents  know  next  to 
nothing  of  hygiene.  Their  teachers  tell  of  the 
valiant  efforts  of  these  children  to  convert  their 
mothers  to  more  sanitary  ways — efforts  which  are 
happily  often  successful.  In  one  home,  where  the 
father  was  a  tailor,  the  baby  was  kept  in  a  room 
where  the  pressing  was  done,  the  air  was  hot  and 
heavy  with  steam.  The  small  daughter,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  Little  Mothers'  League,  insisted 
on  the  baby  being  removed  to  another  room.  Two 
children  in  another  school,  who  had  been  told  of 
the  importance  of  keeping  the  baby's  milk  on  ice, 
tried  to  make  home-made  ice-boxes,  which  their 
fathers,  becoming  interested,  promised  to  finish 
for  them. 

One  wishes  that  all  this  might  be  only  an  en- 
chanting game  for  these  children,  and  that  it 
would  not  be  necessary  for  them  to  put  it  into 
practice  every  day,  with  tired  little  arms  and 
aching  backs.  He  must  be  stiff -hearted  indeed 
who  can  watch  these  gatherings,  their  tousled 
little  heads  and  bare  legs,  their  passionate  intent- 


MADONNAS  OF  THE  CURB 


ness,  their  professional  enthusiasm,  without  some- 
thing of  a  pang.  They  know  so  much  of  the  prob- 
lems, and  they  are  so  pathetically  small.  There  is 
a  touching  truth  in  the  comment  of  one  teacher  in 
her  report  :  "  The  girls  who  had  no  babies  at  home 
seemed  to  take  greater  interest  than  those  that  did 
have."  But  this  is  not  always  so,  for  nothing 
could  be  more  enthusiastic  than  the  little  essays 
written  by  the  children  themselves,  describing 
what  they  have  learnt.  I  cannot  resist  a  few 
quotations: 

No  one  can  be  healthy  unless  she  is  extremely 
clean.  Baby  will  want  his  bath  daily,  with  soap 
and  warmish  water.  You  should  not  put  to  much 
soap  on  the  baby's  face  as  it  get  in  the  baby's 
eyes.  They  likes  to  kick  the  water  as  long  as  sup- 
port his  head.  Before  starting  on  this  swimming 
expedition,  you  should  have  all,  her  or  him  clothes, 
warm,  by  you,  and  he  expects  a  warm  flannel  on 
your  knees  to  lie  on.  You  must  carefully  dry  all 
the  creases  in  his  fat  body  for  him,  with  a  soft 
towel.  (Ruth  Higgins,  Fifth  Grade.) 

The  Little  Mothers'  League  has  helped  me  a 
good  bit  in  dressing  my  little  baby  sister  and  I 
have  enjoyed  it  very  much  and  I  think  it  is  a  very 
sencible  society.  I  have  learnt  how  to  dress  the 
baby  in  winter  and  summer.  And  after  it  is  done 
with  the  bottle  it  should  be  boiled.  (Helen  Potter.) 

A  baby  is  not  to  be  made  to  walk  to  soon  be- 
cause he  might  become  bollegged.  Some  mothers 
think  it  is  nice  to  see  the  baby  walk  soon.  You 
should  never  listen  to  what  your  neighbor  says 
when  your  baby  is  sick,  but  take  him  to  a  doctor. 
(Anna  Mack,  Sixth  Grade.) 


222          THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL 

In  washing  a  baby  you  should  have  a  little  tub 
to  bath  it  in  and  when  you  hear  the  doorbell  ring 
you  should  never  let  your  baby  in  the  tub  while 
you  go  because  many  of  them  get  drowned,  and 
you  should  use  castial  soap  because  that  is  the 
best.  (Marie  Donahue,  Seventh  Grade,  age  12.) 

But  perhaps  most  eloquent  of  all  is  what  little 
Mary  Roberts  says.  Mary  is  in  the  Sixth  Grade 
at  the  Boker  School : 

"The  melancholy  days  are  come 
The  saddest  of  the  year," 

Is  what  we  all  think  when  the  time  comes  when 
The  Little  Mothers'  League  has  to  break  up  for  the 
year.  For  seven  weeks  we  have  listened  eagerly 
to  what  Miss  Ford  has  told  us.  We  all  hope  Miss 
Ford  will  come  back  to  Boker  School  next  fall 
and  teach  us  how  to  care  for  infants. 


THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL 

THE  big  bus  known  to  thousands  of  Philadelphia 
children  as  the  Paradise  Special  was  standing 
ready  at  1621  Cherry  street.  Inside,  in  one  of  the 
large  classrooms  of  the  Friends'  Select  School, 
twenty  small  boys,  each  carefully  tagged  and 
carrying  his  bundle,  were  waiting  impatiently. 
It  was  half -past  eight  in  the  morning,  and  the  bus 
was  about  to  leave  for  Paradise  Farm  with  the 
Tuesday  morning  consignment  of  urchins  for  the 
summer  camp  run  by  the  Children's  Country 
Week  Association.  The  doctor  was  looking  over 


THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL          223 

them  and  one  poor  youngster  was  trying  to  con- 
ceal his  tears  from  the  rest.  The  doctor  had 
found  a  spot  in  his  throat  and  he  had  a  high 
temperature.  He  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  go  this 
week;  his  turn  would  have  to  come  later.  They 
were  all  a  bit  impatient  by  this  time.  Most  of 
them  had  been  up  since  half-past  five,  counting 
every  minute. 

If  you  enjoy  a  shrill  treble  upoar,  and  find  it 
amusing  to  watch  a  busload  of  small  boys  enjoying 
themselves  at  the  top  of  their  versatile  powers,  I 
recommend  a  trip  on  the  Paradise  Special. 
Throughout  the  week  the  bus  is  busy  taking  chil- 
dren and  mothers  to  the  various  farms  and  camps 
run  by  the  Association,  but  Tuesday  morning  is 
boys'  day.  Not  the  least  amusing  feature  of  the 
trip  is  to  watch  the  expressions  of  those  the  bus 
passes  on  the  road.  It  creates  a  broad  grin 
wherever  it  goes.  That  shouting  caravan  of  juve- 
nile glee  is  indeed  an  entertaining  sight. 

There  were  nineteen  boys  on  board  when  we  left 
Cherry  street — an  unusually  small  load  for  the 
Paradise  Special.  Others  were  going  out  by  train. 
But  nineteen  boys,  aged  from  seven  to  thirteen, 
comprise  a  considerable  amount  of  energy.  Three 
or  four  of  them  had  been  to  Paradise  Farm  before, 
and  immediately  took  the  lead  in  commenting  on 
all  that  befell.  Mickey  Coyle  was  one  of  these, 
lamenting  that  as  he  would  be  thirteen  in  Septem- 
ber this  would  probably  be  his  last  visit.  "But 
I'm  lucky  I  ain't  dead,"  he  said  philosophically. 


224          THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL 

"  I've  a  brother  twenty  years  old  who's  dead.  He 
died  on  my  birthday.  He  had  bronnical  pneu- 
monia and  typhoid  and  flu." 

We  passed  along  the  Parkway.  "  This  is  a  Bolly- 
vard,  ain't  it?"  said  one.  Entering  the  Park, 
another  cried,  "Is  this  the  country?"  "Sure, 
them's  the  Rocky  Mountains,"  said  Mickey  in 
scorn. 

The  first  question  in  the  minds  of  all  the  passen- 
gers was  to  know  exactly  how  soon,  and  at  what 
precise  point  they  would  be  "  in  the  country."  The 
Park,  though  splendid  enough,  was  not  "the  coun- 
try." As  we  sped  along  City  Line  road  there  was 
intense  argument  as  to  whether  those  on  one  side 
of  the  bus  were  in  the  country  while  those  of  us  on 
the  other  side  were  still  in  the  city.  Another  game 
that  seemed  to  underlie  all  their  thoughts  was  that 
this  expedition  was  in  some  way  connected  with 
misfortune  for  Germany.  Every  time  we  over- 
hauled another  car  or  truck — which  happened  not 
infrequently,  for  the  Paradise  Special  travels  at  a 
good  clip — that  car  was  set  down  as  German. 
Every  time  a  swift  vehicle  passed  us  we  were  said 
to  be  in  danger  of  being  torpedoed.  For  some 
period  of  time  we  were  conceived  to  be  a  load  of 
German  prisoners  who  had  been  captured  by  the 
Yanks.  Then  again  one  small  enthusiast  shouted 
out  that  we  were  "  bullsheviks "  who  had  been 
arrested. 

Once  satisfied  that  we  were  really  in  the  country 
— and  they  were  not  quite  at  ease  on  this  point 


THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL  225 

until  the  last  of  the  suburban  movies  had  been  left 
behind — their  attention  focused  itself  on  the  ques- 
tion of  apple  trees.  Even  so  experienced  a  Coun- 
try Weeker  as  Mickey  (this  was  his  fifth  visit  to 
the  Farm)  was  vague  on  this  point.  To  a  city 
youngster  almost  every  tree  seems  to  be  an  apple 
tree.  And  everything  that  looks  in  the  least  red- 
dish is  a  strawberry.  Unripe  blackberries  along  the 
hedges  were  hailed  with  tumult  and  shouting  as 
strawberries.  Every  cow  with  horns  was  regarded 
a  little  fearfully  as  a  bull.  And  a  cow  in  the  un- 
familiar posture  of  lying  down  on  top  of  a  hill  was 
pointed  out  (from  a  distance)  as  a  "statue." 

After  we  passed  Daylesford  and  Green  Tree  and 
the  blue  hills  along  the  Schuylkill  came  into  view, 
the  cry,  "Look  at  that  scenery!"  became  inces- 
sant. Any  view  containing  hills  is  known  as 
"scenery"  to  the  Country-Weekers.  When  the 
scenery  began  eleven-year-old  Charley  Franklin 
could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  began  to  tear 
off  the  clean  shirt  and  new  shoes  in  which  his 
mother  had  sent  him  from  home,  and,  digging  in 
his  bundle,  hauled  out  a  blouse  and  tattered  pair 
of  sneakers  that  satisfied  his  idea  of  fitness  for  the 
great  adventure.  He  proudly  showed  me  his  small 
bathing  suit,  carefully  wrapped  up  in  a  Sunday 
comic  supplement.  His  paper  bag  of  cookies  had 
long  since  been  devoured,  and  the  question  of  how 
soon  another  meal  would  come  his  way  was  begin- 
ning to  worry  him.  Then  we  turned  off  the  high 
road,  past  a  signpost  saying  Paradise  Farm,  and 


£26          THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL 

they  were  all  on  their  toes.  The  long,  echoing  tun- 
nel under  the  high  railway  embankment  was 
greeted  with  resounding  cheers.  More  cheers  for 
the  swimming  hole  just  beyond.  We  drew  up  at 
the  foot  of  a  steep  flight  of  wooden  steps  leading 
up  the  hill.  All  piled  out  with  yells.  At  the  top  of 
the  stairs  stood  a  rather  glum  group  of  forty 
similar  urchins.  These  responded  without  much 
acclaim  to  the  applause  of  the  newcomers.  They 
were  the  batch  going  home  on  the  bus.  Their  week 
at  Paradise  was  over. 

When  we  left,  a  few  minutes  later,  the  arrivals 
were  already  being  assigned  to  their  bunks  in  the 
various  camp  bungalows,  and  were  looking  around 
exultantly  at  the  plentiful  "scenery"  and  evi- 
dences of  plentiful  food  to  come.  But  the  temper 
of  the  returning  load  was  not  quite  so  mirthful. 
They  also  had  been  up  since  an  early  hour,  but 
play  had  languished  as  they  had  put  on  their 
clean  clothes  and  had  carefully  bundled  up  their 
other  stores  in  small  newspaper  wrappings.  One 
small  cynic  told  me  that  he  had  learned  the  nec- 
essary connection  between  green  apples  and  castor 
oil.  Another,  with  flaming  red  hair,  seemed  to 
have  tears  in  his  eyes.  Whether  these  were  due  to 
green  apples  or  to  grief  I  could  not  determine.  But 
the  way  they  all  shouted  good-by  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Steel  (who  have  charge  of  the  camp)  showed  how 
they  appreciated  their  week's  adventure.  "  Good- 
by  swimming  hole!"  they  shouted,  and  then 
"Good-by  snakes!"  explaining  that  they  had 


THE  PARADISE  SPECIAL          227 

killed  four  small  garter  snakes  in  the  meadow. 
They  cheered  up  greatly  when  they  saw  a  freight 
train  puffing  along  the  railway,  and  it  was  evident 
that  we  would  have  a  fair  race  with  that  train  all 
the  way  in  to  Overbrook.  Immediately  the  train 
was  set  down  as  a  German  menace,  and  the  cheer- 
ful chauffeur  was  implored  to  do  his  best  for  his 
country.  It  should  be  said  that  we  beat  the  Ger- 
man train  to  Overbrook  by  about  one  hundred 
yards. 

The  latter  part  of  the  ride  was  marked  by  a  sud- 
den panic  on  the  part  of  the  passengers  concerning 
sundry  nickels  and  dimes  which  seemed  to  have 
disappeared,  Nathan  Schumpler,  aged  eight, 
turned  his  blouse  pocket  inside  out  a  dozen  times 
without  finding  the  dime  he  was  sure  he  had  had. 
This  was  a  terrible  blow,  because  he  told  me  he 
had  lost  a  quarter  through  a  crack  in  the  porch  the 
day  before.  This  started  all  the  others  exploring. 
Knotted  and  far  from  clean  handkerchiefs  were 
hastily  untied  to  make  sure  of  the  precious  coinage 
for  homeward  carfare.  At  last  Nathan  found  his 
dune,  in  the  very  pocket  he  had  been  turning  up- 
side down  for  fifteen  minutes.  When  they  got 
back  to  Cherry  street  they  were  overjoyed  to  find  a 
number  of  toy  trains  and  tracks  waiting  on  the 
floor.  My  last  sight  of  the  Country- Weekers  was 
when  they  were  playing  with  these  while  their 
guardians  checked  off  their  lists  and  made  sure 
that  each  had  carfare  to  take  him  home  and  knew 
how  to  get  there.  "  Yes,"  said  the  chauffeur,  as  he 


UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN 


lit  a  cigarette  and  watched  them  disperse,  "they're 
a  great  bunch.  But  if  you  want  to  hear  noise,  you 
should  listen  to  the  girls  when  they  go  out." 


UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN 

MADRIGAL  had  a  bad  cold,  and  I  was  trumpeting 
with  hay  fever;  and  we  set  off  for  consolation  in  a 
tramp  along  the  Wissahickon.  In  the  drowsy  still- 
ness of  a  late  August  afternoon,  with  a  foreboding 
of  autumn  chill  already  in  the  air,  we  sneezed  and 
coughed  our  way  along  the  lovely  ravine.  Those 
lonely  glades,  that  once  echoed  to  the  brisk  drum- 
ming of  horses'  hoofs,  rang  with  our  miserable 
sternutations.  The  rocky  gullies  and  pine-scented 
hillsides  became  for  one  afternoon  the  Vallombrosa 
of  two  valetudinarians.  Thoughts  of  mortal  per- 
ishment  lay  darkly  upon  us.  We  had  lunched 
gorgeously  with  a  charming  host  who  was  suffering 
with  sciatica,  and  had  described  this  affliction  to 
us  as  a  toothache  as  long  as  your  leg.  Then  the 
Ridge  avenue  car  carried  us  between  two  populous 
cities  of  the  dead — Laurel  Hill  and  Mount  Vernon 
Cemeteries.  Was  this  (we  thought)  the  beginning 
of  the  end? 

The  Ridge  avenue  car  set  us  down  at  the  mouth 
of  Wissahickon  creek.  We  each  got  out  a  clean 
handkerchief  from  a  hip  pocket  and  determined  to 
make  a  brave  fight  against  the  dark  angel.  Under 
the  huge  brown  arches  of  the  Reading  Railway, 
which  have  all  the  cheering  gayety  of  an  old 


UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN 


Roman  aqueduct,  we  entered  the  valley  of  en- 
chantment. At  this  point  it  occurred  to  us  that  the 
ancient  Romans  were  really  prohibitionists  at 
heart,  since  it  was  on  aqueducts  that  they  lavished 
the  fullness  of  their  structural  genius.  They  never 
bothered  with  vinoducts. 

Perhaps  Philadelphians  do  not  quite  realize  how 
famous  the  Wissahickon  valley  is.  When  my 
mother  was  a  small  girl  in  England  there  stood  on 
her  father's  reading  table  a  silk  lampshade  on 
which  were  painted  little  scenes  of  the  world's  love- 
liest beauty  glimpses.  There  were  vistas  of  Swiss 
mountains,  Italian  lakes,  French  cathedrals, 
Dutch  canals,  English  gardens.  And  then,  among 
these  fabled  glories,  there  was  a  tiny  sketch  of  a 
scene  that  chiefly  touched  my  mother's  girlish 
fancy.  She  did  not  ever  expect  to  see  it,  but  often, 
as  the  evening  lamplight  shone  through  it,  her  eye 
would  examine  its  dainty  charm.  It  was  called 
"The  Wissahickon  Drive,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A." 
Many  year  afterward  she  saw  it  for  the  first  time, 
and  her  heart  jumped  as  hearts  do  when  they  are 
given  a  chance. 

The  lower  reach  of  the  creek,  with  its  placid 
green  water,  the  great  trees  leaning  over  it,  the 
picnic  parties  along  the  western  marge,  and  the 
little  boats  splashing  about,  is  amazingly  like  the 
Thames  at  Oxford.  I  suppose  all  little  rivers  are 
much  the  same,  after  all;  but  the  likeness  here  is 
so  real  that  I  cannot  forbear  to  mention  it.  But 
one  has  an  uneasy  sense,  as  one  walks  and  watches 


230  UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN 

the  gleaming  motors  that  flit  by  like  the  whizz  of 
the  Ancient  Mariner's  crossbow,  that  the  Wissa- 
hickon  has  seen  better  days.  The  days  when  the 
horse  was  king,  when  all  the  old  inns  were  a  bustle 
of  rich  food  and  drink,  and  the  winter  afternoons 
were  a  ringle-j  ingle  of  sleigh  chimes.  Then  one 
turns  away  to  the  left,  into  the  stillness  of  the 
carriage  drive,  where  motors  are  not  allowed,  and 
the  merry  clop-clop  of  hoofs  is  still  heard  now  and 
then.  Two  elderly  gentlemen  came  swiftly  by  in  a 
bright  little  gig  with  red  wheels,  drawn  by  a 
spirited  horse.  With  what  a  smiling  cheer  they 
gazed  about  them,  innocently  happy  in  their  life- 
long pastime!  And  yet  there  was  a  certain  pathos 
in  the  sight.  Two  old  cronies,  they  were  living  out 
the  good  old  days  together.  Only  a  few  paces  on 
was  the  abandoned  foundation  of  the  Lotus  Inn. 
And  I  remembered  the  verses  in  which  Madrigal 
himself,  laureate  of  Philadelphia,  has  musicked  the 
spell  of  the  river  drive — 

On  winter  nights  ghost-music  plays 
(The  bells  of  long-forgotten  sleighs) 

Along  the  Wissahickon. 
And  many  a  silver-headed  wight 
Who  drove  that  pleasant  road  by  night 
Sighs  now  for  his  old  appetite 

For  waffles  hot  and  chicken. 
And  grandmas  now,  who  then  were  belles! 
How  many  a  placid  bosom  swells 
At  thought  of  love's  old  charms  and  spells 

Along  the  Wissahickon. 


UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN  231 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  one  of  these  silver- 
headed  wights  to  Madrigal  when  he  had  written 
the  poem — "it  wasn't  chicken,  it  was  catfish  that 
was  famous  in  the  Wissahickon  suppers."  "All 
right,"  said  Madrigal,  "will  you  please  have  the 
name  of  the  creek  changed  to  Wissahatfish  to  fit 
the  rhyme?  "  The  necessities  of  poets  must  be  con- 
sulted, unless  we  are  to  go  over,  pen,  ink  and 
blotter,  to  the  blattings  of  vers  libre. 

But  a  plague  on  the  talk  about  "the  good  old 
days ! "  Certainly  in  those  times  the  road  along  the 
creek  was  never  such  a  dreaming  haunt  of  quiet- 
ness as  it  is  today.  An  occasional  proud  damsel, 
cantering  on  horse,  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  Lou 
Tellegen  groom;  a  rambling  carriage  or  two,  a  few 
children  paddling  in  the  stream,  and  a  bronzed  fel- 
low galloping  along  with  eager  face — just  enough 
movement  to  vary  the  solitude.  The  creek  pours 
smoothly  over  rocky  shelves,  churning  in  a  white 
soapy  triangle  of  foam  below  a  cascade,  or  slipping 
in  clear  green  channels  through  an  aisle  of  button- 
woods  and  incredibly  slender  tulip-poplars.  Here 
and  there  is  a  canoe,  teetering  gently  in  a  nook  of 
shade,  while  Colin  and  Amaryllis  are  uttering 
bashful  pleasantries  each  to  other — innocent  pla- 
giarisms as  old  as  Eden,  that  seem  to  themselves 
so  gorgeously  new  and  delicious.  The  road  bends 
and  slopes,  under  cliffs  of  fern  and  evergreen, 
where  a  moist  pungency  of  balsam  and  turpentine 
breathes  graciously  in  the  nose  of  the  sneezer. 
Gushing  springs  splash  on  the  steep  bank. 


232  UP  TO  VALLEY  GREEN 

Already,  though  only  the  end  of  August,  there 
was  a  faint  tinge  of  bronze  upon  the  foliage.  We 
were  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  this  was  truly  a 
sign  of  coming  fall,  or  some  unnatural  blight  with- 
ering the  trees.  Can  trees  suffer  from  hay  fever? 
At  any  rate  we  saw  many  dead  limbs,  many  great 
trunks  bald  and  gouty  on  the  eastern  cliffs  and  a 
kind  of  pallor  and  palsy  in  the  color  of  the  leaves. 
The  forestry  of  the  region  did  not  seem  altogether 
healthy,  even  to  the  ignorant  eye.  We  have  seen 
in  recent  years  what  a  plague  has  befallen  one 
noble  species  of  tree:  it  would  be  a  sorry  thing  if 
Philadelphia's  dearest  beauty  spot  were  ravaged 
by  further  troubles. 

Talking  and  sneezing  by  turns,  we  came  to 
Valley  Green,  where  a  placid  caravanserai  sits  be- 
side the  way,  with  a  broad,  white  porch  to  invite 
the  traveler,  and  a  very  feminine  barroom  inno- 
cently garnished  with  syphons  of  soda  and  lemons 
balanced  with  ladylike  neatness  on  the  necks  of 
grape-juice  bottles.  Green  canoes  were  drawn  up 
on  the  river  bank;  a  grave  file  of  six  small  yellow 
ducklings  was  waddling  toward  the  water;  a  tur- 
key (very  similar  in  profile  to  Mr.  Chauncey 
Depew)  was  meditating  in  the  roadwaj^.  A  ban- 
tam cock  and  his  dame  made  up  in  strut  what 
they  lacked  in  stature,  and  a  very  deaf  gardener 
was  trimming  a  garden  of  vivid  phlox.  Here  was  a 
setting  that  cried  loudly  for  the  hissing  tea  urn. 
Yet  to  think  again  of  refreshment  seemed  disre- 
spectful to  the  noble  lunch  of  a  noble  host,  enjoyed 


ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS        233 

only  four  hours  earlier,  and  we  passed  stoically  by, 
intending  to  go  as  far  as  Indian  Rock,  a  mile  fur- 
ther. But  at  a  little  waterfall,  by  the  Wises  Mill 
road,  we  halted  with  a  common  instinct.  We 
turned  backward  and  sought  that  gracious  ve- 
randa at  Valley  Green.  There,  in  a  pot  of  tea  and 
buttered  toast  with  marmalade,  we  forgot  our 
emunctory  woes. 

We  set  match  to  tobacco  and  strode  upward  on 
Springfield  road,  through  thickets  where  the  sun- 
light quivered  in  golden  shafts,  toward  the  comely 
summits  of  Chestnut  Hill.  Let  Madrigal  have  the 
last  word,  for  he  has  known  and  loved  this  bonniest 
of  creeks  for  forty  years: 

There  earliest  stirred  the  feet  of  spring, 
There  summer  dreamed  on  drowsy  wing; 
And  autumn's  glories  longest  cling 
Along  the  Wissahickon! 


ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS 
A  FEELING  of  sour  depression,  consequent  upon 
mailing  the  third  installment  to  Ephraim  Lederer, 
led  us  to  seek  uplift  and  blithe  cheer.  The  sight- 
seeing bus  was  rilled  except  one  seat  by  the  driver, 
and  we  hopped  aboard.  The  car  was  generously 
freighted  with  Sir  Knights  and  their  ladies,  here  for 
a  convention  of  Templars.  There  was  also  one 
baffled  gentleman  from  South  America,  who  strove 
desperately  to  understand  what  was  happening  to 
him.  From  some  broken  remarks  he  let  fall  we 


234        ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS 

think  he  had  boarded  the  vehicle  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  taking  a  taxi  to  a  railway 
terminal,  where  he  wanted  to  catch  a  train  for 
New  York.  At  any  rate,  when  we  approached 
Independence  Hall  he  was  heard  to  ask  plaintively 
if  this  was  Broad  Street  Station.  He  kept  uttering 
this  inquiry  with  increasing  despondency  through- 
out the  voyage. 

It  was  a  merry  and  humorous  occasion.  The 
gentleman  who  sits  on  a  little  camp  stool  in  the 
prow  of  the  bus  and  emits  history  and  statistics 
through  a  megaphone  is  a  genuine  wag.  His  infor- 
mation is  copious  and  uttered  with  amazing 
fluency.  But  we  were  particularly  interested  in 
the  Sir  Knight  who  slept  peacefully  through  most 
of  the  ride,  which  was  a  long  one,  as  we  were  held 
up  by  the  big  industrial  parade  on  Broad  street 
and  had  to  take  a  long  detour  up  Thirteenth  street 
and  Ridge  avenue.  During  a  spirited  wrangle 
between  our  guide  and  the  conductor  of  a  trolley 
car,  who  asserted  that  we  were  nesting  on  his  rails 
and  would  not  let  him  pass,  the  drowsy  Knight 
awoke  and  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  proceedings. 
Otherwise  he  will  look  back  on  the  tour  in  a 
pleasantly  muddled  haze  of  memory. 

The  pathetic  zeal  and  eagerness  with  which  the 
passengers  hang  upon  the  guide's  words  is  worthy 
of  high  praise.  It  is  an  index  of  our  national  pas- 
sion for  self -improvement.  But  after  two  hours  of 
continuous  exhortation  we  began  to  wonder  how 
much  of  it  would  stick  in  their  minds.  The  follow- 


ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS        235 

ing,  we  imagine,  is  not  an  unfair  representation  of 
the  jumbled  way  in  which  they  will  remember  it: 

Guide:  Observation  car  now  leaving  Keith's 
million-dollar  theatre  for  a  systematic  tour  of  the 
City  of  Brotherly  Love.  As  soon  as  William  Perm 
had  taken  possession  of  the  land  he  laid  plans  for  a 
large  city  at  the  junction  of  the  Drexel  and  Biddle 
families.  On  your  left  you  see  the  site  where  Ben- 
jamin Franklin,  the  first  postmaster  general,  dis- 
covered the  great  truth  that  a  special  delivery 
letter  does  not  arrive  any  faster  than  the  ordinary 
kind.  Also  on  your  left  is  Black's  Hotel,  where 
Benedict  Arnold  was  married.  On  your  right  is 
Independence  Hall,  the  office  of  the  only  Demo- 
cratic newspaper  published  in  the  city.  Further 
down  this  street  is  the  Delaware  river,  which  sepa- 
rates the  city  from  Camden,  the  home  of  the 
largest  talking  soup  factory  in  the  world. 

We  are  now  turning  north  on  Fifth  street,  ap- 
proaching Market  street,  the  city's  fashionable 
residential  thoroughfare.  Directly  underneath 
your  comfortable  seats  in  this  luxurious  car  pass 
the  swift  conveyances  of  the  subway,  forming  the 
cheapest  entrance  into  the  great  department 
stores.  By  means  of  this  superb  subterranean  pas- 
sageway ocean  steamers  arrive  and  depart  daily 
from  all  ports  of  the  globe.  On  your  right  observe 
old  Christ  Church  burial  ground,  all  the  occupants 
of  which  were  imported  from  England.  Under  the 
large  flat  slab  lies  Benjamin  Franklin,  the  first 
16 


236       ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS 

postmaster  general,  and  his  wife,  the  beautiful 
Rebecca  Gratz,  the  heroine  of  Walter  Scott's 
novel,  "Hugh  Wynne."  Now  touring  past  the 
Friends  and  Quakers'  meeting  house,  the  birth- 
place of  Old  Glory.  On  your  left  the  Betsy  Ross 
house,  occupied  by  1600  poor  orphan  boys.  Not 
far  from  here  is  the  Black  Horse  Tavern,  the  fa- 
vorite worshiping  place  of  General  George  Wash- 
ington 

Touring  west  on  Market  street.  Directly  in 
front  is  the  tower  of  the  City  Hall,  36  feet  in 
height,  surmounted  by  the  statue  of  Russell  H. 
Conwell.  The  building  with  the  dome  is  Mr. 
Cattell,  the  city  statistician,  the  author  of  the 
famous  baseball  poem,  "  Acres  of  Diamonds." 
The  vast  edifice  on  your  left  is  Temple  University, 
founded  by  Stephen  Girard,  the  originator  of  the 
price  "$1.98,  marked  down  from  $2."  Here  we 
make  an  interesting  detour  to  avoid  the  congestion 
on  Broad  street.  On  your  right  the  residence  of 
the  late  Doctor  Munyon,  the  famous  hair  restorer, 
the  man  who  said  that  every  self-respecting  man 
should  have  a  roof  garden  of  his  own.  This  is  the 
city  of  homes:  there  are  375,000  single  homes  in 
the  city,  each  one  equipped  with  the  little  instru- 
ment you  will  notice  attached  to  the  second-story 
windows.  This  is  called  a  Busybody,  and  is  a 
reflecting  mirror  used  to  tell  when  the  rent  col- 
lector is  at  the  front  door.  On  your  right  is  the 
North  Penn  Bank,  where  Benjamin  Franklin  flew 


ON  THE  SIGHTSEEING  BUS        237 

his  famous  kited  check,  extracting  electricity  from 
the  bank  examiners. 

We  are  now  approaching  Fairmount  Park,  the 
largest  public  playground  in  the  world.  On  your 
left  is  the  aquarium,  the  local  headquarters  of  the 
Anti-Saloon  League.  It  is  open  to  the  public  six 
days  a  week  and  to  the  fish  at  all  times.  In  this 
aquarium  is  held  the  annual  regatta  of  the  Schuyl- 
kill  Navy.  The  building  in  the  distance  with  the 
dome  is  Horticultural  Hall,  filled  with  all  manner 
of  weird  tropical  visitors.  This  commodious  tun- 
nel was  carved  out  of  the  solid  rock  of  the  Vare 
organization  by  J.  Hampton  Moore,  the  well- 
known  sculptor  of  public  opinion.  Across  the 
river  is  the  Zoological  Garden,  the  summer  resi- 
dence of  Robert  Morris,  the  well-known  cigarette 
maker.  On  your  right,  carved  out  of  sandstone, 
are  the  lifelike  figures  of  Tom  Robins  and  the  other 
three  members  of  the  committee  of  1000,  im- 
mortalized in  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  poem  "Tarn  o' 
Shanter."  Returning  down  the  Parkway  we  pass 
the  magnificent  grand  stands  erected  at  the  time 
of  the  Centennial  Exposition  and  maintained  ever 
since  for  the  resuscitation  of  those  unable  to  get 
seats  on  the  Market  street  trolleys.  I  thank  you 
for  your  kind  attention  and  have  here  some  nice 
postal  cards — 


238         SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON 


SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON 
WHAT  an  afternoon  it  was!  Sunshine  and  blue 
sky,  blended  warmth  and  crispness,  the  wedding  of 
summer  and  autumn.  Sunshine  as  tender  as 
Cardinal  Mercier's  smile,  northern  breeze  sober  as 
the  much-harassed  lineaments  of  the  Tomsmith. 
Citizens  went  about  their  business  "daintily  en- 
folded in  the  bright,  bright  air,"  as  a  poet  has  put 
it.  Over  the  dome  of  the  postoffice,  where  the 
little  cups  of  Mr.  Bliss's  wind  gauge  were  spinning 
merrily,  pigeons'  wings  gleamed  white  in  the  serene 
emptiness.  The  sunlight  twinkled  on  lacquered 
limousines  in  dazzles  of  brightness,  almost  as  vivid 
as  the  "genuine  diamonds"  in  Market  street  show 
windows.  Phil  Warner,  the  always  lunching  book- 
seller, was  out  snapping  up  an  oyster  stew.  Men  of 
girth  and  large  equator  were  watching  doughnuts 
being  fried  in  the  baker's  windows  on  Chestnut 
street  with  painful  agitation.  The  onward  march  of 
the  doughnut  is  a  matter  for  serious  concern  in  cer- 
tain circles,  particularly  the  circle  of  the  waist  line. 
Strolling  up  Ninth  street  one  was  privileged  to 
observe  a  sign  of  the  times.  A  lunch  room  was 
being  picketed  by  labor  agitators,  who  looked 
comparatively  unblemished  by  toil.  They  bore 
large  signs  saying: 

THE  C RESTAURANT 

Is  UNFAIR  TO 
ORGANIZED  LABOR. 


SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON    239 

Side  by  side  with  these  gentry  marched  two 
blonde  waitresses  from  the  lunch  room,  wearing  an 
air  of  much  bitterness  and  oilcloth  aprons  em- 
blazoned 

OUR  EMPLOYES  ARE  NOT  ON  STRIKE 

ALL  OUR  HELP  GET  GOOD  WAGES 
SOME  OF  THE  WAITERS  WANT  OUR  WOMEN 
TO  QUIT  So  THEY  MAY  TAKE  THEIR  PLACES. 

"We're  doing  this  of  our  own  free  will,"  said  one 
of  these  damsels  to  me.  "These  guys  never  worked 
here.  Our  boss  gives  us  good  money  and  we're 
not  going  to  walk  out  on  him."  She  leaned  a 
blazing  lamp  toward  one  of  the  prowling  picketers, 
an  Oriental  of  dubious  valor.  I  would  be  sorry  for 
the  envoy  if  the  lady  spreads  her  lunch-hooks 
across  the  area  by  which  his  friends  recognize  him. 
Almost  next  door  to  this  campaigning  ground  is 
the  famous  postal-card  shop  in  which  one,  may 
always  read  the  secret  palpitations  of  the  public 
mind.  The  first  card  I  noticed  there  said: 

MANY  HAPPY  RETURNS  OF  THE  DAY 
WHAT  DAY?    PAY  DAY. 

Arch  street  seemed  to  be  taking  a  momentary 
halt  for  lunch.  On  the  sunny  paths  of  old  Christ 
Church  burying  ground  a  few  meditators  strolled 
to  and  fro,  and  one  young  couple  were  advancing 
toward  the  wooing  stage  on  a  shady  bench.  The 
lady  was  knitting  a  sweater,  the  swain  arguing 
with  persuasion.  The  Betsy  Ross  House,  still 


240         SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON 

trailing  its  faded  bunting  and  disheveled  wreaths, 
looked  more  like  an  old  curio  shop  than  ever.  One 
wishes  the  D.  A.  R.  would  give  it  a  coat  of  paint 
and  remove  the  somewhat  confused  sign  POUR 
P ATRIA.  A  little  further  on  one  finds  a  sign 

SELECT  EVENING  TRIP 

DOWN  THE  DELAWARE 

ON  PALACE  STEAMER  THOMAS  CLYDE 

THEATRICAL  MOONLIGHT 

This  reference  to  nautical  pleasures  brought  it 
to  my  mind  that  I  had  never  enjoyed  a  voyage  on 
the  palace  ferries  of  the  Vine  street  crossing,  and  I 
moved  in  that  direction.  On  Front  above  Arch 
one  meets  the  terminus  of  the  Frankford  L,  a 
tangle  of  salmon-colored  girders.  Something  per- 
ilous, I  could  not  see  just  what,  was  evidently 
going  on,  for  a  workman  in  air  shouted,  "Watch 
yourself! "  This  terse  phrase  is  one  of  the  triumphs 
of  the  American  language,  as  is  also  the  remark  I 
heard  the  other  evening.  It  referred  to  a  certain 
publican  who  conducts  a  speak-easy  at  an  ad- 
dress I  shall  not  name.  This  publican  had  appar- 
ently got  into  an  argument  solvable  only  by  the 
laying  on  of  hands,  and  had  emerged  bearing  an 
eye  severely  pulped.  "  Some  one's  been  workin'  on 
him,"  was  the  comment  of  one  of  his  customers. 

Watching  myself  with  caution,  I  dodged  down 
the  steep  stairs  by  which  Cherry  street  descends 
from  Front  to  Delaware  avenue.  In  the  vista  of 
this  narrow  passage  appeared  the  sharp  gray  bow 


g 

tn 


SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON          241 

of  the  United  States  transport  Santa  Teresa.  The 
wide  space  along  the  docks  was  a  rumble  of  traffic, 
as  usual :  wagons  of  golden  bananas,  sacks  of  pea- 
nuts on  the  pavement.  But  along  the  waterside 
bulwark  were  the  customary  groups  of  colored 
citizens  shooting  dice.  Crap,  I  surmise,  is  a  truly 
reverent  form  of  worship:  nowhere  else  does  one 
hear  the  presiding  deities  of  the  congregation  ad- 
dressed with  such  completely  fervent  petition.  A 
lusty  snapping  of  fingers  and  an  occasional  cry  of 
"Who  thinks  he  feels  some?"  rose  from  one  group 
of  happy  competitors.  Here  again  the  student  of 
manners  may  notice  a  familiar  phenomenon,  the 
outward  thrust  of  the  negro  toe.  It  seems  that  the 
first  thing  our  brother  does  on  buying  a  new  pair  of 
shoes  is  cut  out  a  section  of  leather  so  that  his  out- 
most phalange  may  sprout  through. 

The  tranquil  upper  deck  of  the  Race  street  rec- 
reation pier  is  a  goodly  place  to  sit  and  survey  the 
shining  sweep  of  the  river.  The  police  boat  Ash- 
bridge  lies  there,  and  one  may  look  down  on  her 
burnished  brasses,  watch  the  tugs  puffing  up  and 
down,  and  the  panorama  of  shipping  from 
Kaighn's  Point  to  a  big  five-masted  schooner 
drawn  up  at  Cramps. 

Approaching  the  Vine  street  ferry  a  mood  of 
reckless  vagabondage  is  likely  to  seize  the  way- 
farer. Posters  inform  that  the  Parisian  Flitters 
with  "40  French  Babies  40"  are  in  town,  and  one 
feels  convinced  that  life  still  teems  with  irre- 
sponsible gaiety.  A  savor  of  roasting  peanuts 


242         SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON 

spreads  upon  the  air.  Buying  a  bag,  one  darts 
aboard  the  antique  ship  Columbia,  built  in  1877, 
and  still  making  the  perilous  voyage  to  Cooper's 
Point. 

There  is  an  air  of  charming  leisure  about  the 
Vine  street  ferry.  Two  mules,  attached  to  a 
wagon,  waved  their  tall  ears  in  a  friendly  manner 
as  we  waited  for  the  sailing  date  to  arrive,  and  I 
tried  to  feed  them  some  peanuts.  All  the  mules 
I  have  ever  been  intimate  with  were  connoisseurs 
of  •;  goobers,  but  somewhat  to  my  chagrin  these 
animals  seemed  suspicious  of  the  offer.  After  sev- 
eral unavailing  efforts  to  engage  their  appetites 
their  amused  charioteer  informed  me  that  he 
didn't  think  they  hardly  knew  what  peanuts  were. 
These  delightful  mules  watched  me  with  an  air  of 
embarrassing  intensity  throughout  the  crossing. 
They  had  quite  the  air  of  ladies  riding  in  a  Pull- 
man car  whose  gaze  one  has  inadvertently  inter- 
rupted and  who  have  misconstrued  the  accident. 

These  mules  were  so  entertaining  that  I  almost 
forgot  to  study  the  river.  On  the  Camden  side 
I  was  somewhat  tempted  to  go  exploring,  but  a 
friendly  seaman  assured  me  the  Columbia  would 
shortly  return  to  her  home  port  and  entreated  me 
not  to  allow  myself  to  be  stranded  abroad.  So  all  I 
have  to  report  of  Cooper's  Point  is  a  life-size 
wooden  figure  of  a  horse  near  the  ferry  slip.  Then 
we  made  the  return  trip  over  the  sparkling  beer- 
colored  water,  speaking  a  sister  vessel  of  the 
Shackamaxon  route. 


SEPTEMBER  AFTERNOON          243 

There  is  much  to  catch  the  eye  on  a  ramble  up 
Vine  street  from  the  river,  but  probably  most  in- 
teresting is  a  very  unexpected  stable  about  num- 
ber 120.  Passing  under  an  archway,  one  finds  a 
kind  of  rural  barnyard  scene;  great  wooden  sheds 
on  each  side  of  an  elbow  alley,  with  lines  of  wagons 
laid  away.  There  is  an  old  drinking  trough  of 
clear  water,  horses  stand  munching  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  a  queer  tangle  of  ragged  roofs  and 
small  windows  overhangs  this  old-fashioned  scene. 
A  few  doors  further  on  is  an  equally  unexpected 
sign  in  a  barber  shop  window:  Cups  and  Leeches 
Applied.  One  also  finds  a  horseshoeing  forge  in 
full  blast,  with  patient  animals  leaning  their  heads 
against  the  wall  and  rosy  irons  glowing  in  the 
darkness.  With  similar  brightness  shone  a  jug  of 
beer  that  I  saw  a  man  carrying  across  the  street  at 
the  corner  of  Fifth.  The  sunlight  sparkled  upon 
the  bright  brown  brew,  and  as  peanuts  are  thirsty 
fodder  I  pushed  through  the  swinging  doors. 


244          BROAD  STREET  STATION 


BROAD  STREET  STATION 
BROAD  STREET  STATION  is  to  me  a  place  of  ex- 
traordinary fascination.  Among  the  cloudy  mem- 
ories of  early  childhood  it  stands  solidly,  a  home  of 
thunders  and  shouting,  of  gigantic  engines  with 
their  fiery  droppings  of  coal  and  sudden  jets  of 
steam.  It  was  a  place  which  in  a  delighted  sense  of 
adventure  was  closely  mixed  with  fear.  I  remem- 
ber being  towed  along,  as  a  very  small  urchin, 
among  throngs  of  hasty  feet  and  past  the  prodi- 
gious glamour  of  those  huge  wheels  and  pistons. 
(Juvenile  eyes  are  very  close  to  the  ground.) 
Then,  arrived  within,  the  ramping  horses  carved 
opposite  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  the  great  map 
on  the  northern  wall  were  a  glorious  excitement  to 
my  wondering  gaze.  Nowadays,  when  I  ramble 
about  the  station  its  enchantment  is  enhanced  by 
the  recollection  of  those  early  adventures.  And  as 
most  people,  when  passing  through  a  station,  are 
severely  intent  upon  their  own  problems  and  little 
conscious  of  scrutiny,  it  is  the  best  of  places  to 
study  the  great  human  show.  Mr.  Joseph  Pennell, 
in  a  thrilling  drawing,  has  given  a  perfect  record 
of  Broad  street's  lights  and  tones  that  linger  in  the 
eye — the  hurdling  network  of  girders,  the  patter- 
ing files  of  passengers,  the  upward  eddies  of  smoke. 
A  sense  of  baffling  excitement  and  motion  keeps 
the  mind  alert  as  one  wanders  about  the  station. 
In  the  dim,  dusky  twilight  of  the  trainshed  this  is 


BROAD  STREET  STATION          245 

all  the  more  impressive.  A  gray-silver  haze  hangs 
in  the  great  arches.  Against  the  brightness  of  the 
western  opening  the  locomotives  come  gliding  in 
with  a  restful  relaxation  of  effort,  black  indistin- 
guishable profiles.  The  locomotives  are  the  only 
restful  things  in  the  scene — they  and  the  red- 
capped  porters,  who  have  the  priestly  dignity  of 
oracles  who  have  laid  aside  all  earthly  passions. 
Most  of  the  human  elements  wear  the  gestures  of 
eagerness,  struggle  and  perplexity.  The  Main 
Line  commuters,  it  is  true,  seem  to  stroll  train- 
ward  like  a  breed  apart,  with  an  air  of  leisurely 
conquest  and  assurance.  They  have  the  bearing  of 
veterans  who  have  conquered  the  devils  of  trans- 
portation and  hold  them  in  leash.  But  this  superb 
carelessness  is  only  factitious.  Some  day  their 
time  will  come  and  they  will  fall  like  the  rest  of  us. 
They  will  career  frantically  to  and  fro,  dash  to 
information  desk  and  train  bulletin,  rummage  for 
tickets  and  wipe  a  beaded  brow.  What  gesture, 
incidentally,  is  so  significantly  human  as  that  of 
mopping  the  forehead?  If  I  were  a  sculptor  at 
work  on  a  symbolic  statue  of  Man  I  would  carve 
him  with  troubled  and  vacant  eyes,  dehydrating 
his  brow  with  a  handkerchief. 

Take  your  stand  by  the  train  gate  a  few  mo- 
ments before  the  departure  of  the  New  York  ex- 
press. What  a  medley  of  types,  and  what  a  com- 
mon touch  of  anxiety  and  wistfulness  makes  them 
kin!  Two  ladies  are  bidding  each  other  a  pro- 
longed farewell.  "Now,  remember,  7  Rowland 


246          BROAD  STREET  STATION 

street,  Cambridge,"  says  the  departer.  "Be  sure 
to  write!"  A  feverish  man  rushes  back  from  the 
train,  having  forgotten  something,  and  fights  his 
way  against  the  line  which  is  filing  through  the 
gate.  Another  man  hunts  dismally  through  all  his 
pockets  for  his  ticket,  rocking  gently  and  thought- 
fully on  his  heels.  The  ticket  seems  to  have  van- 
ished. He  pushes  his  hat  back  on  his  forehead  and 
says  something  to  the  collector.  This  new  posture 
of  his  hat  seems  to  aid  him,  for  in  another  half 
minute  the  ticket  appears  in  a  pocket  that  he  has 
already  gone  through  several  times.  The  official 
cons  his  watch  every  five  seconds.  A  clerk, 
apparently  from  one  of  the  ticket  windows,  rushes 
up  with  a  long  strip  ticket.  There  is  some  question 
about  a  sailor  with  a  furlough  ticket  to  Providence. 
Has  he  gone  through?  Haven't  seen  him.  The 
gateman  claps  the  gate  to  and  switches  off  the 
light.  Three  other  men  come  dashing  up  and  are 
let  through  by  the  kindness  of  the  usher.  Then 
comes  the  sailor  galloping  along  with  a  heavy  suit- 
case. Here  he  is!  Here's  your  ticket!  Again  the 
gate  is  opened  and  the  navy  man  tears  down  the 
platform.  The  train  is  already  moving,  but  he 
just  makes  it.  Far  out,  in  the  bright  sunlight  be- 
yond the  station,  the  engine  can  be  seen  pulling 
out,  ejecting  a  stiff  spire  of  smoke  and  horizontal 
billows  of  steam. 

At  the  same  time  rumbles  in  the  hourly  express 
from  New  York.  Watch  the  people  come  out. 
Here  is  the  brisk  little  man  with  a  brown  bag,  who 


BROAD  STREET  STATION          247 

always  leads  the  crowd.  The  men  from  the 
smoker  are  first,  puffing  pipes  or  cigars.  They  all 
seem  to  know  exactly  where  they  want  to  go  and 
push  on  relentlessly.  After  the  main  body  of 
travelers  come  the  Pullman  passengers,  usually 
followed  by  porters.  Here  is  a  girl  in  a  very  neat 
blue  suit.  Her  porter  carries  an  enormous  black 
hat  box  painted  with  very  swagger  stripes  of  green. 
She  is  pretty,  in  a  rather  frank  way,  but  too  dusty 
with  powder.  An  actress,  one  supposes.  A  tall 
young  man  steps  out  from  the  crowd,  something 
very  rakish  about  him,  too.  She  looks  surprised. 
"Nice  of  me  to  meet  you,  wasn't  it?"  he  says. 
They  walk  off  together,  and  one  notices  the  really 
admirable  hang  of  her  blue  skirt,  just  reaching  her 
fawn  spats.  Sorry  she  uses  so  much  powder.  Curi- 
ous thing;  the  same  young  chap  was  back  again 
an  hour  later,  this  time  to  meet  a  man  on  the  next 
New  York  train.  They  both  wore  brightly  burn- 
ished brown  shoes  and  seemed  to  have  completely 
mastered  life's  perplexities.  All  these  little  dra- 
mas were  enacted  to  a  merry  undertone  of  con- 
stant sound:  the  clear  chime  of  bells,  the  murmur 
and  throb  of  hissing  steam,  the  rumble  of  baggage 
trucks,  the  slither  of  thousands  of  feet. 

There  is  not  much  kissing  done  when  people 
arrive  from  New  York,  but  if  you  will  linger  about 
the  gate  when  the  Limited  gets  in  from  Chicago 
you  will  see  that  humanity  pays  more  affectionate 
tribute  to  friends  arriving  from  that  strange  coun- 
try. There  was  one  odd  little  group  of  three.  A 


248          BROAD  STREET  STATION 

man  and  a  woman  greeted  another  lady  who 
arrived  on  the  Chicago  train.  The  two  women 
kissed  with  a  luxurious  smacking.  Then  the  man 
and  the  arrival  kissed.  The  Chicago  lady  wore  an 
enormous  tilted  hat  with  plumes.  "Well,  I'm 
here,"  she  said,  but  without  any  great  enthusiasm. 
The  man  was  obviously  frightfully  glad  to  see  her. 
But  stand  how  he  would,  she  kept  the  slant  of  her 
hat  between  her  face  and  him.  He  tried  valiantly 
to  get  a  straight  look  at  her.  She  would  not  meet 
his  gaze.  He  put  his  head  on  one  side  astonishingly 
like  a  rooster,  and  his  whole  attitude  expressed  an 
earnest  desire  to  please.  When  he  spoke  to  her  she 
answered  to  the  other  woman.  She  handed  him 
her  baggage  checks  without  looking  at  him.  Then 
she  pointed  to  a  very  heavy  package  at  her  feet. 
With  a  weary  resignation  he  toted  it,  and  they 
moved  away. 

Inside  the  station  the  world  is  divided  sharply 
into  two  halves.  On  the  trainward  side  all  is  bustle 
and  stir;  the  bright  colors  of  news  stands  and 
flower  stalls,  brisk  consultation  of  timetables  at 
the  information  desk,  little  telephone  booths, 
where  lights  wink  on  and  off.  In  one  of  these 
booths,  with  the  door  open  for  greater  coolness,  a 
buyer  is  reporting  to  his  home  office  the  results  of 
an  out-of-town  trip.  "How  much  did  you  sold 
of  that?"  he  says.  "He  offered  me  a  lot — pretty 
nice  leather — he  wanted  seventy-five — well,  listen, 
finally  I  offered  him  sixty-five — Oh,  no,  no,  no,  he 


BROAD  STREET  STATION          249 

claims  it's  a  dollar  grade — well,  I  don't  know,  it 
might  be  ninety  cent  maybe." 

But  abaft  the  big  stairway  a  quiet  solemnity 
reigns.  The  long  benches  of  the  waiting  room 
seem  a  kind  of  Friends'  meeting.  Momently  one 
expects  to  see  some  one  rise  and  begin  to  speak. 
But  it  is  not  the  peace  of  resignation;  it  is  the 
peace  of  exhaustion.  These  are  the  wounded  who 
have  dragged  themselves  painfully  from  the  onset, 
stricken  on  the  great  battlefield  of  Travel.  Here 
one  may  note  the  passive  patience  of  humanity, 
and  also  how  pathetically  it  hoards  its  little  pos- 
sessions. A  lady  rises  to  get  a  drink  of  water. 
With  what  zealous  care  she  stacks  all  her  impedi- 
ments in  a  neat  pile — umbrella,  satchel,  handbag, 
shawl,  suitcase,  tippet,  raincoat  and  baby — and 
confides  them  to  her  companion.  A  gust  of  that 
characteristic  railroad  restaurant  odor  drifts  out- 
ward from  the  dining  room — a  warm,  soupy  blend 
of  browned  chicken-skin  and  crisp  roll-crust.  On 
one  end  of  the  bench  are  three  tall  bronzed  dough- 
boys, each  with  two  service  stripes  and  the  red 
chevron.  They  have  bright  blue  eyes  and  are  care- 
fully comparing  their  strip  tickets,  which  seem 
nearly  a  yard  long.  A  lady  in  very  tight  black 
suede  slippers  stilts  out  of  the  dining  room.  Like 
every  one  else  in  the  waiting  room  she  walks  as 
though  her  feet  hurt  her.  The  savor  of  food  is 
blown  outward  by  electric  fans.  The  doughboys 
are  conferring  together.  They  have  noticed  two 
lieutenants  dining  at  one  of  the  white-draped 


250       THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

tables.  This  seems  to  enrage  them.  Finally  they 
can  stand  it  no  longer.  Their  vast  rawhide 
marching  boots  go  clumping  into  the  dining  room. 
Every  now  and  then  the  announcer  comes  to  the 
head  of  the  stairway  and  calls  out  something  about 
a  train  to  Harrisburg,  Altoona,  Pittsburgh  and 
Chicago.  There  is  a  note  of  sadness  in  his  long- 
drawn  wail,  as  though  it  would  break  his  heart  if 
no  one  should  take  this  train,  which  is  a  favorite  of 
his.  A  few  weary  casuals  hoist  themselves  from 
the  benches,  gather  their  belongings  anew  and 
stagger  away. 


THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

THE  sands  are  lonely  in  the  fall.  On  those  broad 
New  Jersey  beaches,  where  the  rollers  sprawl  in- 
ward in  ridges  of  crumbling  snow,  the  ocean  looks 
almost  wistfully  for  its  former  playmates.  The 
children  are  gone,  the  small  brown  legs,  the  toy 
shovels  and  the  red  tin  pails.  The  familiar  figures  of 
the  summer  season  have  vanished :  the  stout  ladies 
who  sat  in  awninged  chairs  and  wrestled  desper- 
ately to  unfurl  their  newspapers  in  the  wind;  the 
handsome  mahogany-tanned  lifesavers,  the  vam- 
perinoes  incessantly  dr}ring  their  tawny  hair,  the 
corpulent  males  of  dark  complexion  wearing 
ladies'  bathing  caps,  the  young  men  playing  a  de- 
generate baseball  with  a  rubber  sphere  and  a  bit 
of  shingle.  All  that  life  and  excitement,  fed  upon 
hot  dogs  and  vanilla  cones,  anointed  with  cold 


THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER     251 

cream  and  citronella,  has  vanished  for  another 
year. 

But  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  the  town  (it  is 
Fierceforest  we  have  in  mind)  taking  its  own  vaca- 
tion, after  laboring  to  amuse  its  visitors  all  summer 
long.  Here  and  there  in  the  surf  you  will  see  a 
familiar  figure.  That  plump  lady,  lathered  by 
sluicing  combers  as  she  welters  and  wambles  upon 
Neptune's  bosom,  is  good  Frau  Weintraub  of  the 
delicatessen,  who  has  been  frying  fish  and  chow- 
dering  clams  over  a  hot  stove  most  of  July  and 
August,  and  now  takes  her  earned  repose.  Yonder 
is  the  imposing  bulge  of  the  real  estate  agent,  who 
has  been  too  busy  selling  lots  and  dreaming  hotel 
sites  to  visit  the  surf  hitherto.  Farther  up  the 
shore  is  the  garage  man,  doing  a  little  quiet  fishing 
from  the  taffrail  of  a  deserted  pier.  The  engineer 
of  the  "roller  coaster"  smokes  a  cigar  along  the 
deserted  boardwalk  and  discusses  the  league  of  na- 
tions with  the  gondolier-in-chief  of  the  canals  of 
Ye  Olde  Mill.  The  hot-dog  expert,  whose  merry 
shout,  "Here  they  are,  all  red  hot  and  fried  in 
butter!"  was  wont  to  echo  along  the  crowded 
arcade,  has  boarded  up  his  stand  and  departed 
none  knows  where. 

There  is  a  tincture  of  grief  in  the  survey  of  all 
this  liveliness  coffined  and  nailed  down.  Even  the 
gambols  of  Fierceforest's  citizens,  taking  their 
ease  at  last  in  the  warm  September  surf,  cannot 
wholly  dispel  the  mournfulness  of  the  observer. 
There  is  something  dreadfully  glum  in  the  merry- 
17 


232       THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

go-round  seen  through  its  locked  glass  doors.  All 
those  gayly  caparisoned  horses,  with  their  bright 
Arabian  housings,  their  flowing  manes  and  tossing 
heads  and  scarlet-painted  nostrils,  stand  stilled  in 
the  very  gesture  of  glorious  rotation.  One  remem- 
bers what  a  jolly  sight  that  carrousel  was  on  a 
warm  evening,  the  groaning  pipes  of  the  steam- 
organ  chanting  an  adorable  ditty  (we  don't  know 
what  it  is,  but  it's  the  tune  they  always  play  at 
the  movies  when  our  favorite  Dorothy  Gish  comes 
on  the  screen),  children  laughing  and  holding  tight 
to  the  wooden  manes  of  the  horses,  and  flappers 
with  their  pink  dresses  swirling,  clutching  for  the 
brass  ring  that  means  a  free  ride.  All  this  is 
frozen  into  silence  and  sleep,  like  a  scene  in  a 
fairy  tale.  It  is  very  sad,  and  we  dare  not  contem- 
plate the  poor  little  silent  horses  too  long. 

Bitterly  does  one  lament  the  closing  of  the 
Boardwalk  auction  rooms,  which  were  a  perpetual 
free  show  to  those  who  could  not  find  a  seat  in 
the  movies.  There  was  one  auctioneer  who  looked 
so  like  Mr.  Wilson  that  when  we  saw  his  earnest 
gestures  we  always  expected  that  the  league  of 
nations  would  be  the  subject  of  his  harangue.  But 
on  entering  and  taking  a  seat  (endeavoring  to 
avoid  his  eye  when  he  became  too  persuasive,  for 
fear  some  involuntary  gesture  or  the  contortions  of 
an  approaching  sneeze  would  be  construed  as  a  bid 
for  a  Chinese  umbrella  stand)  we  always  found 
that  it  was  a  little  black  box  full  of  teacups  that 
was  under  discussion.  He  would  hold  one  up 


THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER       253 

against  an  electric  bulb  to  show  its  transparency. 
When  he  found  his  audience  unresponsive  he 
would  always  say,  "You  know  I  don't  have  to  do 
this  for  a  living.  If  you  people  don't  appreciate 
goods  that  have  quality,  I'm  going  to  pack  up 
and  go  to  Ocean  City."  But  he  never  went.  Al- 
most every  evening,  chagrined  by  some  one's 
failure  to  bid  properly  for  a  cut-glass  lady-finger 
container  or  a  porcelain  toothbrush-rack,  he 
would  ask  the  attendant  to  set  it  aside.  "I'll  buy 
it  myself,"  he  would  cry,  and  as  he  kept  on  buying 
these  curious  tidbits  for  himself  throughout  the 
summer,  we  used  to  wonder  what  his  wife  would 
say  when  they  all  arrived. 

Along  the  quiet  Boardwalk  we  saunter,  as  the 
crisp  breeze  comes  off  the  wide  ocean  spaces. 
Bang!  bang!  bang!  sound  the  hammers,  as  the 
shutters  go  up  on  the  beauty  parlor,  the  toy  shop, 
the  shop  where  sweet-grass  baskets  were  woven, 
and  the  stall  where  the  little  smiling  doll  known  as 
Helene,  the  Endearing  Beach  Vamp,  was  to  be  won 
by  knocking  down  two  tenpins  with  a  swinging 
pendulum.  How  easy  it  was  to  cozen  the  public 
with  that!  A  bright  red  star  was  painted  at  the 
back  of  the  pendulum's  swing,  and  the  natural 
assumption  of  the  simple  competitor  was  that  by 
aiming  at  that  star  he  would  win  the  smiling 
Helene.  Of  course,  as  long  as  one  aimed  at  the 
star  success  was  impossible.  The  Japanese  dealers, 
with  the  pertinacity  of  their  race,  are  almost  the 
last  to  linger.  Their  innocent  little  gaming  boards, 


254       THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

their  fishponds  where  one  angles  for  counterfeit 
fish  and  draws  an  eggcup  or  a  china  cat,  according 
to  the  number  inscribed  on  the  catch,  their  rou- 
lette wheels  ("Ten  Cents  a  Chance— No  Blanks") 
— all  are  still  in  operation,  but  one  of  the  shrewd 
orientals  is  packing  up  some  china  at  the  back  of 
the  shop.  He  knows  that  trade  is  pretty  well  done 
for  this  season.  We  wondered  whether  he  would  go 
down  to  the  beach  for  a  swim  before  he  left.  He 
has  stuck  so  close  to  business  all  summer  that  per- 
haps he  does  not  know  the  ocean  is  there.  There 
is  another  thrifty  merchant,  too,  whose  strategy 
conies  to  our  attention.  This  is  the  rolling-chair 
baron,  who  has  closed  his  little  kiosque,  but  has 
taken  care  to  paint  out  the  prices  per  hour  of  his 
vehicles,  and  has  not  marked  any  new  rates. 
Cautious  man,  he  is  waiting  until  next  summer  to 
see  what  the  trend  of  prices  will  be  then. 

Across  the  fields  toward  the  inlet,  where  the 
grasses  have  turned  rusty  bronze  and  pink,  where 
goldenrod  is  minting  its  butter-yellow  sprays  and 
riotous  magenta  portulaccas  seed  themselves  over 
the  sandy  patches,  the  rowboats  are  being  dragged 
out  of  the  canal  and  laid  up  for  the  winter.  The 
sunburned  sailorman  who  rents  them  says  lie  has 
had  a  good  season — and  he  "can't  complain."  He 
comes  chugging  in  with  his  tiny  motorboat,  towing 
a  string  of  tender-feet  who  have  been  out  tossing 
on  the  crabbing  grounds  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
patiently  lowering  the  fishheads  tied  on  a  cord  and 
weighted  with  rusty  bolts.  His  patient  and  ener- 


THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER       255 

getic  wife  who  runs  the  little  candy  and  sarsa- 
parilla  counter  on  the  dock  has  ended  her  labors. 
She  is  glad  to  get  back  to  her  kitchen:  during  the 
long,  busy  summer  days  she  did  her  family  cooking 
on  an  oil  stove  behind  the  counter.  The  captain, 
as  he  likes  to  be  called,  is  about  to  make  his  annual 
change  from  mariner  to  roofer,  the  latter  being 
his  winter  trade.  "It's  blowing  up  for  rain,"  he 
says,  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  eastern  sky. 
"I  guess  the  season's  pretty  near  over.  I'll  get 
up  the  rest  of  them  boats  next  week." 

In  September  the  bathing  is  at  its  best.  Par- 
ticularly at  sunset,  when  every  one  is  at  supper. 
To  cross  those  wide  fields  of  wiry  grass  that 
stretch  down  to  the  sand,  is  an  amazement  to  the 
eye.  Ahead  of  you  the  sea  gleams  purple  as  an 
Easter  violet.  The  fields  are  a  kind  of  rich  palette 
on  which  every  tint  of  pink,  russet  and  bronze 
are  laid  in  glowing  variation.  The  softly  wavering 
breeze,  moving  among  the  coarse  stalks,  gives  the 
view  a  ripple  and  shimmer  of  color  like  shot  silk. 
A  naturalist  could  find  hundreds  of  species  of 
flowers  and  grasses  on  those  sandy  meadows. 
There  are  great  clumps  of  some  bushy  herb  that 
has  already  turned  a  vivid  copper  color,  and 
catches  the  declining  sunlight  like  burnished 
metal.  There  are  flecks  of  yellow,  pink  and  laven- 
der. A  cool,  strong  odor  rises  from  the  harsh, 
knife-edged  grasses — a  curiously  dry,  brittle  scent, 
familiar  to  all  who  have  poked  about  sand 
dunes. 


256       THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

The  beach  itself,  colored  in  the  last  flush  of  the 
level  sun,  is  still  faintly  warm  to  the  naked  foot, 
after  the  long  shining  of  the  day;  but  it  cools 
rapidly.  The  tide  is  coming  in,  with  long,  seething 
ridges  of  foam,  each  flake  and  clot  of  crumbled 
water  tinged  with  a  rose-petal  pink  by  the  red  sun- 
set. All  this  glory  of  color,  of  movement,  of  un- 
speakable exhilaration  and  serenity,  is  utterly 
lonely.  The  long  curve  of  the  beach  stretches 
away  northward,  where  a  solitary  orange-colored 
dory  is  lying  on  the  sand.  The  air  is  full  of  a 
plaintive  piping  of  sea-birds.  A  gull  flashes  along 
the  beach,  with  a  pink  glow  on  its  snowy  under- 
plumage. 

At  that  hour  the  water  is  likely  to  be  warmer 
than  the  air.  It  may  be  only  the  curiously  magical 
effect  of  the  horizontal  light,  but  it  seems  more 
foamy,  more  full  of  suds,  than  earlier  in  the  day. 
Over  the  green  top  of  the  waves,  laced  and  marbled 
with  froth,  slides  a  layer  of  iridescent  bubble-wash 
that  seems  quite  a  different  substance  from  the 
water  itself — like  the  meringue  on  top  of  a  lemon 
pie.  One  can  scoop  it  up  and  see  it  winking  in 
points  of  sparkling  light. 

The  waves  come  marching  in.  It  is  a  calm  sea, 
one  would  have  said  looking  down  from  the  dunes, 
but  to  the  swimmer,  elbowing  his  way  under  their 
leaning  hollows,  their  stature  seems  tremendous. 
The  sunlight  strikes  into  the  hills  of  moving  water, 
filling  them  with  a  bluish  spangle  and  tremor  of 
brightness.  It  is  worth  while  to  duck  underneath 


THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER       257 

and  look  up  at  the  sun  from  under  the  surface,  to 
see  how  the  light  seems  to  spread  and  clot  and 
split  in  the  water  like  sour  cream  poured  into  a  cup 
of  tea.  The  sun,  which  is  so  ruddy  in  the  evening 
air,  is  a  pale  milky  white  when  seen  from  under 
water. 

A  kind  of  madness  of  pleasure  fills  the  heart  of 
the  solitary  sunset  swimmer.  To  splash  and  riot  in 
that  miraculous  color  and  tumult  of  breaking 
water  seems  an  effective  answer  to  all  the  griev- 
ances of  earth.  To  float,  feeling  the  poise  and  en- 
circling support  of  those  lapsing  pillows  of  liquid, 
is  mirth  beyond  words.  To  swim  just  beyond  the 
line  of  the  big  breakers,  dropping  a  foot  now  and 
then  to  feel  that  bottom  is  not  too  far  away — to 
sprawl  inward  with  a  swashing  comber  while  the 
froth  boils  about  his  shoulders — to  watch  the  light 
and  color  prismed  in  the  curl  and  slant  of  every 
wave,  and  the  quick  vanishing  of  brightness  and 
glory  once  the  sun  is  off  the  sea — all  this  is  the 
matter  of  poems  that  no  one  can  write. 

The  sun  drops  over  the  flat  glitter  of  the  inland 
lagoons;  the  violet  and  silver  and  rose-flushed 
foam  are  gone  from  the  ocean;  the  sand  is  gray 
and  damp  and  chilly.  Down  the  line  of  the  shore 
comes  an  airplane  roaring  through  the  upper 
regions  of  dazzling  sunlight,  with  brightness  on  its 
varnished  wings.  The  lighthouse  at  the  Inlet  has 
begun  to  twinkle  its  golden  flash,  and  supper  will 
soon  be  on  the  table.  The  solitary  swimmer  takes 
one  last  regretful  plunge  through  a  sluicing  hill  of 


258      THE  SHORE  IN  SEPTEMBER 

green,  and  hunts  out  his  pipe.  He  had  left  it,  as 
the  true  smoker  does,  carefully  filled,  with  a 
match-box  beside  it,  in  a  dry  hollow  on  the  sand. 
Trailing  a  thread  of  blue  reek,  he  plods  cheerfully 
across  the  fields,  taking  care  not  to  tread  upon  the 
small  hoptoads  that  have  come  out  to  hail  the 
evening.  Behind  him  the  swelling  moon  floats  like 
a  dim  white  lantern,  penciling  the  darkening  water 
with  faint  scribbles  of  light. 

But  there  are  still  a  few  oldtimers  in  Fierce- 
forest,  cottagers  who  cling  on  until  the  first  of 
October,  and  whose  fraternal  password  (one  may 
hear  them  saying  it  every  time  they  meet)  is 
"Sure!  Best  time  of  the  year!"  Through  the  pink 
flush  of  sunrise  you  may  see  the  husbands  moving 
soberly  toward  the  early  commuters'  train,  the 
6 : 55,  which  is  no  longer  crowded.  (A  month  ago 
one  had  to  reach  it  half  an  hour  early  in  order  to 
get  a  seat  in  the  smoker.)  Each  one  transports  his 
satchel,  and  also  curious  bundles,  for  at  this  time 
of  year  it  is  the  custom  to  make  the  husband  carry 
home  each  week  an  instalment  of  the  family  bag- 
gage, to  save  excess  when  moving  day  comes.  One 
totes  an  oilstove;  another,  a  scales  for  weighing 
the  baby.  They  trudge  somewhat  grimly  through 
the  thin  morning  twilight,  going  back  for  another 
week  at  office  and  empty  house  or  apartment. 
Leaving  behind  them  the  warm  bed,  the  little  cot- 
tage full  of  life  and  affection,  they  taste  for  a 
moment  the  nostalgic  pang  that  sailors  know  so 
well  when  the  ship's  bow  cuts  the  vacant  horizon. 


PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED      £59 

Over  the  purple  rim  of  sea  the  sun  juts  its  scarlet 
disk.  You  may  see  these  solitary  husbands  halt  a 
moment  to  scan  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  They 
stand  there  thoughtful  in  the  immortal  loneliness 
of  dawn.  Then  they  climb  the  smoker  and 
pinochle  has  its  sway. 


PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED 

IT  was  a  delicious  cool  evening  when  I  strolled 
abroad  to  observe  the  town  composing  itself  for 
slumber.  The  caustic  Mrs.  Trollope,  who  visited 
Philadelphia  in  1830,  complained  bitterly  that 
there  was  no  carousal  or  cheer  of  any  kind  pro- 
ceeding in  the  highways  after  sunset :  "  The  streets 
are  entirely  dark,  scarcely  a  step  is  heard,  and  for 
a  note  of  music,  or  the  sound  of  mirth,  I  listened 
in  vain."  But  the  lady  would  find  us  much  more 
volatile  now. 

The  Weather  Man  tries  to  set  us  a  good  example 
by  pulling  down  the  front  of  his  little  booth  at 
Ninth  and  Chestnut  soon  after  10  o'clock,  but 
there  are  few  who  take  the  hint.  It  was  a  night 
almost  chilly — 67  degrees — a  black  velvety  sky  to 
the  northward,  diluted  to  a  deep  purple  and  blue 
where  the  moon  was  shining  in  the  south.  At  10.45 
letter  writing  was  in  full  scratch  along  the  counters 
of  the  main  postoffice.  Every  desk  was  busy,  the 
little  stamp  windows  were  lively  caves  of  light. 
Hotel  signs — the  old  signs  that  used  to  say 
ROOMS  $1  UP,  and  now  just  say  ROOMS— were 


260      PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED 

beaconing  along  the  street.  Crowds  were  piling  out 
of  movies.  The  colored  man  who  letters  cards 
with  delicate  twirls  of  penmanship  was  setting  up 
his  little  table  on  Market  street.  In  spite  of  the 
cool  air  every  soda  fountain  was  lined  with  the 
customary  gobs.  The  first  morning  papers  were 
beginning  to  be  screamed  about  the  streets,  with 
that  hoarse  urgency  of  yelling  that  always  makes 
the  simple-minded  think  that  something  fearful 
has  happened. 

A  crowd  gathered  hastily  in  front  of  a  big  office 
building  on  Chestnut  street.  Policemen  sprang 
from  nowhere.  A  Jefferson  ambulance  clanged  up. 
Great  agitation,  and  prolonged  ringing  of  the  bell 
at  the  huge  iron-grilled  front  door.  What's  up? 
Finally  appeared  a  man  with  blood  spattered  over 
his  shirt  and  was  escorted  to  the  ambulance.  The 
engineer  had  walked  too  near  an  electric  fan  and 
got  his  head  cut.  Lucky  he  didn't  lose  it  alto- 
gether, said  one  watcher. 

Eleven  o'clock.  In  a  cigar  store  served  by  a 
smiling  damsel,  two  attractive  ladies  were  asking 
her  if  it  would  be  safe  for  them  to  visit  a  Chinese 
restaurant  a  little  farther  up  the  street.  "We're 
from  out  of  town,"  they  explained,  "and  all  alone. 
We  want  some  chop  suey.  Is  that  the  kind  of 
place  ladies  can  go  to?"  The  cigar  saleslady  ap- 
pealed to  me,  and  I  assured  the  visitors  they  would 
be  perfectly  serene.  Perhaps  if  I  had  been  more 
gallant  I  should  have  escorted  them  thither.  Off 
they  went,  a  little  timorous. 


PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED      261 

Eleven  fifteen.  The  first  of  the  typical  night- 
hawk  motors  begin  to  appear;  huge  runabouts, 
with  very  long  bonnets  and  an  air  of  great  power. 
One  of  them,  a  vivid  scarlet  with  white  wheels, 
spins  briskly  round  the  City  Hall.  Trills  and  tink- 
lings  of  jazz  clatter  from  second-story  restaurants. 
But  Chestnut  street  is  beginning  to  calm  down. 
Lights  in  shop  windows  are  going  off.  The  old 
veteran  takes  his  seat  on  a  camp-stool  near  Juniper 
street  and  begins  to  tingle  his  little  bell  merrily. 
If  you  drop  something  in  his  box  he  will  tell  you 
the  sign  of  the  zodiac  under  which  you  were  born, 
prognosticate  your  lucky  days  and  planetary  hours 
and  advise  you  when  to  take  a  journey.  He  ex- 
plained to  me  that  this  happened  to  be  the  night 
of  Venus.  I  had  been  sure  of  it  already  after  some 
scrutiny  of  the  pavements.  As  the  lights  are 
dimmed  along  the  street,  the  large  goldfish  in  a 
Chestnut  street  cafe  window  grow  more  placid  and 
begin  to  think  of  a  little  watery  repose. 

Half-past  eleven.  The  airy  spaces  round  the 
City  Hall  are  full  of  a  mellow  tissue  of  light  and 
shadow.  The  tall  lamp  standards  are  like  trees  of 
great  pale  oranges.  The  white  wagons  of  the 
birchbeer  fleet  are  on  their  rounds.  The  seats 
where  the  band  concerts  are  held  are  deserted  save 
for  one  meditative  vagrant,  drooping  with  un- 
known woes.  Swiftly  flowing  cars  flit  mysteriously 
round  the  curve  and  bend  into  the  long  expanse  of 
North  Broad  street  where  their  little  red  stern- 
lights  twinkle  beneath  the  row  of  silver  arcs 


PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED 


stretching  away  into  the  distance.  Broad  Street 
Station  is  comparatively  quiet,  though  there  is  the 
usual  person  gazing  up  at  the  window  lettered 
SCRIP  CLERGY  STOPOVERS  COMMUTA- 
TION. He  wonders  what  it  means.  I  do  not 
know,  any  more  than  he.  Standing  at  the  corner 
of  the  station  the  lights  of  the  sky  are  splendid  and 
serene.  Over  the  Finance  Building  a  light  wispy 
plume  of  steam  hovers  and  detaches  itself,  gleam- 
ing in  the  moonshine  like  a  floating  swan's  feather. 
The  light  catches  the  curves  of  the  trolley  rails  like 
ribbons  of  silver. 

Midnight.  The  population  seems  to  have  sorted 
itself  into  couples.  Almost  all  the  ladies  in  sight 
wear  silk  sports  skirts,  and  walk  with  their  escorts 
in  a  curiously  slow  swishing  swing.  Some  of  them 
may  have  been  dancing  all  evening,  and  still  pace 
with  some  of  the  rhythm  of  the  waxed  floor.  In 
darkened  banks  are  little  gleams  of  orange  light  be- 
hind trellises  of  bars,  where  watchmen  sit  and 
grind  away  the  long  hours.  Down  the  dark  narrow 
channel  of  Sansom  street  it  is  very  silent.  The 
rear  of  a  ten-cent  store  shows  a  gush  of  brightness, 
where  some  overhauling  of  stock  is  going  on.  The 
back  door  is  open,  and  looking  in  I  can  see  a  riotous 
mouse  darting  about  under  the  counters,  warily 
watching  the  men  who  are  rearranging  some  dis- 
play. The  Jefferson  Hospital  is  silent,  with  occa- 
sional oblongs  of  light  in  windows.  I  seem  to  de- 
tect a  whiff  of  disinfectants,  and  wonder  how  the 
engineer  is  getting  on. 


PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED       263 

Market  street  is  still  lively.  A  "  dance  orchard  " 
emits  its  patrons  down  a  long  stair  to  the  street. 
Down  they  come,  gaily  laughing.  The  male  part- 
ners are  all  either  gobs,  who  love  dancing  even 
more  than  ice  cream  soda;  or  youths  with  tilted 
straw  hats  of  coarse  weave,  with  legs  that  bend 
backward  most  oddly  below  the  knee,  very  tightly 
and  briefly  trousered.  Two  doughboys  with  ace  of 
spades  shoulder  insignia  greet  the  emerging 
throng,  showing  little  booklets  for  sale.  They  urge 
the  girls  to  buy,  with  various  arts  of  cajolery  and 
bright-eyed  persuasion.  "Who'll  buy  a  book?" 
they  say,  "forty  short  stories,  put  out  by  a 
wounded  soldier."  The  girls  all  wear  very  exten- 
sive hats,  and  are  notably  pretty.  "Which  way 
do  we  go?"  is  the  first  question  on  reaching  the 
street.  It  is  usually  the  way  to  the  nearest  soda 
fountain. 

Twelve  forty.  The  watering  tank  roars  down 
Chestnut  street,  shedding  a  hissing  tide  from  curb 
to  curb.  The  fleet  of  To  Hire  night  taxis  wheel  off 
one  by  one  as  fares  leap  in  to  escape  from  the  de- 
luge, which  can  be  heard  approaching  far  up  the 
silent  street.  It  is  getting  quiet,  save  in  the  all- 
night  lunch  rooms,  where  the  fresh  baking  of 
doughnuts  and  cinnamon  buns  is  being  set  out, 
and  the  workers  of  the  night  shift  are  streaming  in 
for  their  varied  and  substantial  meals.  They  eat 
leisurely,  with  loud  talk,  or  reading  the  morning 
papers. 

One  fifteen.  The  population  consists  mostly  of 


264      PUTTING  THE  CITY  TO  BED 

small  groups  on  corners  waiting  patiently  for  cars, 
which  are  rare  after  one  o'clock.  Chauffeurs  sit  in 
twos,  gossipping  over  the  fares  of  the  evening. 
Along  the  curb  of  the  Federal  Building  on  Ninth 
street  linger  a  few  resolute  loungers,  enjoying  the 
calm  of  the  night.  A  fruit  stall  man  is  wondering 
whether  to  trundle  home.  The  pile  of  fresh  dough- 
nuts in  the  lunch  room  is  rapidly  diminishing. 
Street  cleaning  trucks  are  on  their  nightly  rounds. 
It's  time  to  go  to  bed. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
Santa  Barbara 


STACK  COLLECTION 

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